


Peter Parker and the Death of the Whole Wide World

by Allegory_for_Hatred



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bullying, COMPLETE!, Character Death, Gen, Guilt, Hacking, Hitchhiking, Homelessness, Hurt No Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Murder, New York, New York City, Paranoia, Peter-centric, Poor Life Choices, Poor Peter Parker, Spiders, Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, Will add tags as I go, Worried Tony Stark, accidental murder, any OCs are not actually important at all, blatant and obvious foreshadowing, eventually, like i dont even give them names, mild swearing, undefined tho like im not getting into specifics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-05-26 20:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory_for_Hatred/pseuds/Allegory_for_Hatred
Summary: A man died seven nights ago while Peter was out patrolling. To remedy the situation, Peter starts taking cues from his anxiety and paranoia.Things get out of control fairly quickly.





	1. Days I

**Author's Note:**

> // yo
> 
> if you want to read a very poorly written unnecessarily bad fic you've come to the right place  
> if you want to read a fic with good characterization and a conflict that isn't weridly obscure, you have not
> 
> this is a bad fic  
> enjoy or dont ; )
> 
> //dies + thx for reading

(Peter stared down at his hands and thought they looked dirty. The sharp blade that had stabbed him was sitting on the concrete with a critical delicacy. He glanced over his shoulder but the alleyway was empty.) 

Seven days have passed. He doesn't sleep well anymore. 

 

Peter had stayed up until two in the morning slinging around the city looking for the sort of neighborhood criminal activities Spider-Man could stop. It had been a fairly calm night, until about one, when some goons tried to rob a bank. Peter had stayed to wait for the cops after webbing them up because  _hey, they were pretty clever._  He kind of wanted to talk about it, maybe. (But then a feeling a dread took over his chest, and Peter kept trekking on through the night in silence.) 

Until he was too tired to function and he went home to sleep. Not that he could have slept if he'd wanted to. Adrenaline was actually maybe Peter's worst enemy, and when that wore off he was too preoccupied with anxieties from... really just about anything. Like Toomes, and Ben, and that essay for English, and—Peter sucked in a breath and glanced around the room nervously (seven days ago, seven days ago, seven—). 

Speaking of school: Peter was currently about ten minutes behind schedule which, admittedly, was his own fault. He'd manage. Just had to... skip a few steps in his morning routine. He ran out the door without a goodbye to his aunt. Or breakfast. Or that essay he was supposed to write. Or... well, he didn't do a lot of the things he was supposed to but  _dammit he was tired! And late!_  

 

It was five seconds after the bell rang that Peter was sliding into his desk at school, and he was counting it as a win. 

"Dude, you okay?" Ned was a good friend. Caring, dorky, and yeah maybe a little too excited about Peter's arachnid related extracurriculars but honestly, Peter would be too if the roles were reversed. Ned was  _such_ a good friend, but Peter was really not doing this today. ('Today' seemed like sort of an underestimate.) 

Instead, he grunted and sunk down into the chair until his head smacked the desk. Peter's thoughts were more a spiral than his exhaustion was. Even just being at school, he was feeling persecuted, watched, investigated. There was an anxiety to breathing Peter didn't feel right naming. 

Somewhere to Peter's left, Ned sucked in a breath of air, and breathed out an indelicately put "ouch," because Ned was really the best friend anyone could ask for, or something like that. "...Did you get any sleep last night? You look exhausted." 

Peter couldn't find the energy to reply elaborately and dissuade his friends concern. He rolled his head on the desk to face Ned. "Not really." And suddenly felt uncomfortable under Ned's gaze, so he turned away. 

Ned looked like he wanted to say something, but their teacher was calling for the class to quiet down, then hurdled into a lesson Peter couldn't even hope to follow. Something about... probably math _?_  His eyes were half-lidded and his head was jerking upright every few seconds, so Peter figured that he was actually maybe just going to sleep. But he didn't want to dream. 

When he finally mustered up enough energy to actually care about his education, the bell was ringing and class was over. He didn't argue when Ned grabbed his elbow and pulled him out the door. Didn't have much of a right to fight it. 

 

He had made it to lunch. Peter was almost one hundred percent convinced that some sort of holy intervention had kept him awake during his classes because by the end of things he was pretty sure he wasn't actually conscious despite apparently taking notes. Not that he could read any of that chicken scratch. Go figure. 

Any other day and he might have cared that Ned kept sending him concerned glances and even MJ had looked up from her book to ask if he was okay. He honestly didn't even care that Flash had been throwing bits of eraser at his head throughout the day. 

If anything, Flash was keeping him out of detention by shocking him awake every five minutes with eraser to his head. He was almost grateful to Flash, but then remembered that  _oh wait, Flash is terrible_  and then he wasn't grateful anymore. A pit formed in Peter's stomach, but he didn't vocalize it. 

Anyway, it was lunch and Peter was almost in tears about even surviving the first half of the school day. His mind was a broken record that could only repeat 'sleep' in varying degrees of urgency and desperation. (Seven days, Peter thought, grip tightening on his backpack straps, Seven days since...) 

He was getting a book out of his locker when Ned sidled up next to him looking almost stern. Peter shut his locker with a weary sigh, preparing for the worst (HE KNOWS something told him WHAT HAPPENED SEVEN DAYS AGO. WATCH OUT). Peter felt a chill run down his spine. His ears started ringing Peter's damnation. 

"I'm taking you to the nurse." Ned was soft corners and muted distrust. His voice broke the hum of terror coursing through Peter. "You look terrible. 

And, wow, Ned was the best. He was a great friend, being all concerned for Peter's well-being, but he really didn't need a nurse. Didn't deserve— "I'm just tired, Ned," Peter shrugged, starting off towards the cafeteria. It wasn't like he was sick. Or hurt. 

"Come on, man. You fell asleep in Spanish and were stumbling around in the halls during passing period." There was honest concern in Ned's eyes, probably, but when Peter tried to meet his friend's gaze he realized how heavy his eyelids were and just closed them instead. "This isn't healthy." 

Peter silently mused that it wasn't supposed to be healthy. He was just doing what people like him should do. Peter wouldn't sleep even if he wanted to rest. "I'll do a short patrol tonight," Peter said instead, already thinking about how quickly he could get the day to end if he cut out doing homework and patrolling until the crack of dawn, "get to bed early." 

(Peter looked down at his hands and shivered.) 

Ned huffed. "You should take a break from—" whispering suddenly, "—Spider-Manning tonight, Peter. How late were you out last night, anyway?" 

"I don't know, maybe two? Three?" 

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Again? I thought May gave you a curfew after the last time you came in past midnight!" 

And, yeah, maybe he usually didn't get home before his admittedly generous eleven o'clock curfew most nights, but if Aunt May didn't find out then he technically hadn't broken his curfew. That was his story and he was sticking to it. It wasn't like Aunt May could argue when she was usually asleep on the couch after watching her shows when he got back, anyway. "Crime doesn't sleep. At least, not at a reasonable hour." Peter shrugged, feeling the straps of his backpack were suddenly too heavy on his shoulders. "I can make it through one day without visiting the nurse." 

And then Peter tripped on thin air, wobbled around uncertainly, and careened into some lockers with a  _crash._  

"Pete—" 

"I'm  _fine,_ Ned. Just tripped, is all." 

Ned didn't insist any further, apparently about as tired of arguing with Peter as Peter was with just about everything, and looped his arm with Peter's and headed them into the lunchroom. He was silently glad for Ned's support after the third time he lost his balance on the way in (but he didn't miss the mumbled, "not really proving your point," each time he tripped). 

Sitting down, Peter stumbled on his feet and landed with a grunt at the table. The bench shifted when Ned settled in beside him. 

Peter's head was already resting on the table when he heard MJ. "He looks like trash." 

Unable or unwilling to defend himself, he just let his eyes shut and hummed in what probably sounded like tacit agreement. It was. 

"Yup." 

_Wow, thanks Ned,_  he almost says, but instead just yawns and nods slightly, like Ned's confirmation was something he'd wanted. 

His plan this morning had been something along the lines of finishing his essay during lunch with some half-baked excuse as to its poor quality, but now that it was actually time to work, Peter didn't think he could pick up a pencil, let alone write an entire essay (finishing it now seemed almost... insignificant). He almost started to reach for his backpack to see what a previous, more awake version of him had started when Ned put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Did you not bring a lunch?" 

Because  _oh_ _yeah_ he totally didn’t bring a lunch and that probably wasn’t really helping matters. Through some vaguely distorted haze, Peter sat up to look over at MJ (who was reading again, probably didn't care about him at all), then Ned (who was definitely concerned with him, but mostly just looked annoyed at this point). 

At his blank stare, Ned sighed, sliding a sandwich bag to Peter. "You can have my sandwich." Said in a voice that clearly meant  _I'm_ _disappointed_ _in you_ or maybe just  _you're worrying me._ Peter wasn't sure, but settle on the former with a hurt sort of certainty and a muted validation. 

Ten hours of sleep in the last week was not enough sleep for Peter to start analyzing expressions. It was a wonder Ned was only just now seeing how dead on his feet Peter was. He used to sleep more. Seven days. 

Instead, Peter just grumbled out a muted, "Thanks," because fighting Ned wasn't really worth it, and with his enhanced spider metabolism, skipping out on meals was probably near suicidal. Whatever. 

Ned slid a plastic baggie to where Peter's books were haphazardly dropped onto the table then rummaged around in his own lunch for something to eat himself. After a brief stare-down with the bagged sandwich, Peter unzipped it and took it into his hands. He took a small bite. 

And  _wow_ he was actually crazy hungry. Apparently in his exhausted haze, Peter had drowned out the aching emptiness in his stomach. He inhaled the remaining pb and j with renewed vigor and was finished within the minute. 

"Guess you were hungry," MJ was looking up from her book again, expression flat despite the hint of amusement or something in her eyes. Peter flushed and turned away. He still felt her eyes on him and it gave Peter a heavy, dark feeling. 

For the rest of lunch, Ned pestered him about getting more sleep and eating enough food while MJ passed some snide remarks every few moments between turning pages. And—really, Peter wasn't trying to be inconsiderate, but with Ned's mothering and MJ's... MJ-ing he was feeling a little babied. Which was entirely idiotic, mostly because he was  _Spider-Man, for goodness' sake,_ but also because he, admittedly, was kind of terrible at taking care of himself. It was making Peter feel sort of sick to his stomach for reasons he knew those two wouldn't understand. 

He and Ned were eating out of the same bag of chips while Ned fretted good-naturedly. Peter yawned and glanced at the clock. 

"Will you need help walking to your next class?" 

Turning back to Ned, Peter huffed. "I'll be fine. The food really helped. Thanks, Ned." It  _had_ helped, actually. Maybe enough to go an hour into classes before falling asleep again. Longer, even, given his slowed metabolism from lack of nutrients. 

"Your welcome!" He beamed for a second, but then looked uncertain, "Are you sure, though? You were stumbling around petty bad earlier..." 

The bell rang, and Peter hurried out of the room to his next class, skin an unhealthy pallor and steps discordant. If Ned was calling out to him, Peter didn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it. 

(a more clear-minded him might have taken concern over his enhanced senses not picking up on Ned's panicked, "Peter!" but it didn't bother him now. He was running on half of Ned's lunch and maybe two hours of sleep; everything was moving slowly anyway) 

And then someone else was yelling. That, Peter  _could_ hear because it was literally directly in front of his face. Peter turned his face up from where his eyes had drifted to the patterns in the tile. It was Flash. 

"Hey, Penis Parker! You look like shit!" Peter was distantly reminded that Flash was terrible. He was  _so_  revoking his previous gratefulness from when Flash had kept him awake by throwing things at him. "Stay up late working with Stark at your internship?" 

Peter almost didn't have the energy to combat Flash's sarcastic taunts, but he found it in him somehow. "Shut up, Flash." He had bigger concerns these days than petty bullying. Bigger secrets. WATCH OUT. 

There was a pull on Peter's shirt and a bang; Peter was faintly aware that the bully had grabbed his shirt and slammed him up against the lockers. A sharp pain shot up Peter's spine from where he felt the handle of a locker dig into his back. It would probably bruise. "Watch your mouth!" Flash was yelling again. 

Peter shivered, and suddenly there was blackness at the corner of Peter's vision and a sharpness, a ringing, at the base of his skull. His mouth felt dry. Was Flash still yelling? It looked like his mouth was moving, but Peter couldn't really hear anything. He just wanted to lay down. He felt himself going heavy. 

Then Flash was letting him go, almost a panicked look in his eyes. The second Flash wasn't supporting his weight, Peter crumpled to the ground. He was already passed out before Flash even let go. 

 

(This kid would be the death of him—) 

"He what _?!_ " 

_"Mr. Parker fainted just after lunch. Someone will have to come pick him up, but his aunt isn't answering her phone."_  

This kid was actually going to be the death of him, and that in no way was an exaggeration. Tony huffed, pulling back from whatever mechanical wonders he had been tinkering with— "I'll be right there." —and he hung up. 

Making the kid put his number down for an emergency contact had mostly been an emotional hassle, but every time Peter got hurt on patrol, Tony was thankful he took the precaution. He wasn't an emotional man—if anyone asked he'd somehow turn the conversation around—but Peter had wormed his way into Tony's heart and he'd be damned if he let anything happen to that kid. So, yes, telling Peter he would be there in an emergency forced him to admit that he maybe just slightly cared about the kid, but it was worth it (what with how often Peter  _refused_  to tell Tony when he was injured). 

Again: this kid—the death of him. 

"Fri, tell Happy to get the car ready." 


	2. Days II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well," Peter shrugged, "criminals, am I right?" and felt the words tighten the knot in his stomach.
> 
> aka Peter eats pancakes

When Peter came to, it was a sluggish realization that he was in the nurse's office. Even more sluggishly, he noticed the voices.

"Exhaustion?" The voice was distantly familiar, "He's not... hurt?"

There was a pause, then, "He has some bruising where he hit the ground,—"

_A_ _nd the locker,_  Peter thought, though figured the nurse must've not checked below his clothes for that,  _thanks, Flash._

"—but mostly he's just deprived of sleep. Based on what his friend told me, I'd say it's been quite a while since he's slept a functional amount. Ah—and there's the matter of food. Whatever he's eating, it isn't enough. I'd say he's only getting a portion of the calorie intake he needs daily."

"Jeez, kid," and—wait a minute, Peter  _did_ recognize that voice. It was—

"Mr. Stark?"

There's a presence at his side almost instantly. It takes a moment, but Peter's eyes are squinting up at the figure of Tony Stark, genius extraordinaire. "Kid." Is all he says, and that's probably enough.

Actually, that's  _definitely_ enough, and Peter realizes that he  _just passed out at school because he hasn't been sleeping and his actual hero came to rescue him_. His face in flushed scarlet at unusually record speeds. "M-mr. Stark. I'm so sorry, I-I didn't—"

"Kid, stop. Please." He sends a wayward glance at the school nurse, who gestures vaguely before leaving the two alone. Peter doesn't really understand, but he supposes Stark's status is reason enough. "Let's get you to the compound. Then you can fumble your way through an explanation."

Peter wants to argue—for a second, he doesn't think he'll find the energy, but the humiliation of Mr. Stark coming to rescue him from actually nothing provides the momentum instead—so he does. "What? N-no, Mr. Stark, I'm fine. J-just felt a bit tired, but I'm all good now! Really."

Tony has an eyebrow raised (Peter quickly does a mental check of what he must look like to elicit such obvious exasperation—he felt heavy). Peter tries again. "I'm not hurt, so..." the nurse walked back in, a more visibly sick student trailing behind with low moans, "...so you don't have to bother with this. With me."

"Nope. No arguing." His words are clipped, "Get up, kid. I'm taking you to the compound, no arguments."

Peter wants to argue—wants to fight—but he'd rather not anger his hero (it's a miracle Stark hadn't given up on him already), but in reality, he can't really feel his face. Maybe his neurons have given up on him. So—no, Peter doesn't fight back. It's a little thing, just standing and leaning heavily against Tony—because he's still a little dizzy—but it's absolutely the most embarrassing thing he's done in the last maybe actually just forever. Peter dwells on the shame and lets it built up in his chest until he can't really breath.

He's not saying he wants to curl up in a ball and die of embarrassment, but he's also not denying it.

He didn't remember the ride to the compound, but did vaguely recall the sharp, judging silence of the car ride there. Peter thought maybe it was Stark punishing him for being... reckless, but also wondered if maybe he just didn't want to talk. Maybe it was both. Either way, Peter kind of wished he would have said something so he wouldn't have to fight sleep in the car with Mr. Stark right there. It was when they arrived that the lecturing began and Peter reluctantly stole back his earlier wish.

"So," Tony began, "You want to tell me what happened there, kid?" There was an undercut of judgement there, Peter knew it.

Already feeling bad about making Mr. Stark leave his busy schedule for some petty... bother like this, Peter offered a weak, "Sorry, Mr. Stark. I-I don't know what happened." He did. Belatedly, he added, "It w-won't happen again. Promise." He couldn't really make that promise.

Stark sighed, made his way to the fridge, and poured a glass of what Peter assumed wasn't alcohol (it didn't smell so sweet—it smelled like...). "You passed out in school today. We talked about  _this_ not interfering with school."

"I know. I'm really sorry." Tried to breath in, but the air felt sudden in his lungs. Took a deeper breath.

"Sit." And Tony sat, so Peter took an obedient seat beside him, though notably a distance away. It was a hard feeling to place (didn't want to place it—), but Peter felt sort of uncomfortable sitting so close to Mr. Stark. Something about that closeness didn't feel right. Regardless...

"I'm—" Peter began.

"You can't stay out that late," Tony looked stern, like an investment fell through, "what reason would you possibly have for disregarding your hot aunt's—and more importantly my—curfew for you? Did something happen last night?" (Stark knew this had to have been going on longer than just one night. His kid looked dead on his feet, but Tony wanted to start small. Something was wrong, wrong, wrong.)

Peter's breath caught. He knew! Tony was WATCHING all the time. Even when Peter was trying to keep things secret, Tony was WATCHING. Knew he stayed out too late. Did he also know about the... food? Did he know about the... The thought made Peter feel sick to his stomach, but also sort of light. It was partly a good thought and gave his pause for a calming breath.

Now, Peter could have said any number of things to his mentor, like how he wouldn't be able to sleep with these nightmares and anxieties anyway, or how even the thought of leaving his city unwatched for one second left a pit of deep, heavy guilt in his stomach that made him want to throw up, but didn't. Instead, Peter gave a half-grin and suggested, "Well," shrugged, "criminals, am I right?" and felt the words tighten the knot in his stomach.

Tony seemed to stop at that, dropping his rough expression in turn for a mostly confused looking one. "What? No—look, kid. Just go home earlier."

(god, what was the kid doing with his face? It was all scrunched up and looking distraught.)

And Peter didn't know what to say to that except "Yes sir," so that's what he said. Tony gave him another odd look, but evidently wasn't bothered enough to chase the inquiry.

"Alright." Stark replied with a tone of curious finality. "I'll be making sure you get to bed before eleven.—" (Peter loudly thought 'stupid baby monitor protocol...'  then felt sort of sick, so he retracted the thought shamefully) "—And you school nurse said something about needing to eat more. What's up with that?"

Tony's pause sent a shiver down Peter's spine. He needed help, he needed sustenance, but when he spoke, the only thing that came out was, "I forgot to grab something this morning. That's all." Hastily, he added, "a-and yesterday evening!" thinking suddenly that maybe one day's worth of not eating might not support whatever evidence Mr. Stark had gathered against him. 

And—again! That sharp look from Mr. Stark. His eyes were gazing down at Peter's with something he couldn't quite decode. Like maybe he had something he wanted to ask. A part of Peter wished he would ask it. The other part of Peter dreaded his mentor's every movement. What did he—

"Well..." (This kid would be the death of him. With how often he refused to tell Tony— _anything!_ ) "...let's not forget in the future."

Peter mentally took up the advice in a sarcastic little column of cognition, then reasoned Mr. Stark had never really been good with emotions. No one could fault him for not asking Peter more.  It wasn't like Peter had much—… "Okay. Of course, Mr. Stark. Sorry." He let the thought trail away.

Tony sighed again, leaned heavily into the couch, and seemed rather then aware of the space between them. He let out a laden puff of air. "I'll call your aunt--" seemed to pick up on Peter's anxious mood and leaden stomach— "you can stay here tonight. Go get some sleep."

"I wouldn't w-want to impose. It's still early and I have homework. And patrol." Peter flushed nervously and looked around the room searchingly. It was empty of people except for them, and he mutely wondered the deficit.

(Tony was staring at the boy as his gaze flitted around the room with a disconcerted expression. This kid would be the death of him—what was going on in that thick skull of his? He choreographed reaching out to Peter with obvious intentions and placed a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to ask what was going on but couldn't.)

"Look—" voice sharp and digging—"I'm... worried about you. Loathe as I am to admit it, I care about you, kid. It's Friday, so I'll let you sleep here over the weekend. Get you back to your normal, spunky self then get you back to school where I won't have to come pick you up when you pass out. Deal?" (He preened proudly at his own emotional openness. Pepper would be proud, too—or not. Regardless, the look on Peter's face seemed stressed and Tony wasn't sure why, but rather immediately assumed it had more to do with the lack of sleep than anything else. He wanted the kid to know—)

"Oh, okay."

(—that he really cared about him. Wanted him to feel better. Almost like a son to Tony.... not that he'd ever say that. There was an unspoken love in everything they did—Peter already knew it.)

And Peter didn't  _not_ want to sleep, so he stood abruptly and walked off, leaving Tony behind him probably disgusted with his suddenness (wondering, why is he running off so fast? Must be tired... then thinking Peter was acting strange and wrong). He walked to where he knew the rooms were, just behind the bend of the wall, stopped, and loitered for a moment. There was a vague noise of Stark moving behind him, so Peter selected a door (there were five just there—which one?) and locked himself behind it. Peter took a deep breath and contemplated his character.

Stark was probably WATCHING him now. Didn't trust him or didn't like him—wanted to humiliate him. Or MAYBE HE KNEW? Maybe. Peter felt a curious dig in the back of his neck and he quickly made for the clean, white bed at the room's center. Pulling his knees to his chest, Peter breathed out again, heavily, then breathed again, sharply. That weariness left his body—(Stark picked up his phone with a sigh, dialed May and left a weak willed message about her nephew's location. He didn't ask about sleep or about food. The things he would do for this kid, to keep him out of trouble. This kid would be the—)

Peter heard the city warn him mutely of danger but couldn't make out the words through his drowsiness. He fell asleep with dread in his veins because the city saw everything. Sleep wore out the dainty paranoia of New York.

(Mr. Stark didn't know it, but Peter dreamt of guilt and shame. He dreamt of an empty alleyway—)

Of course, the nature of his... business, let's say, implied a certain level of necessary trauma, so—no—Peter's dreams were not clear. About two hours into his rest, Peter shot awake, breathing heavy and face drenched in unrepentant sweat—It was sort of gross, having enhanced senses really made the sweat dripping down his back feel... well, it was gross—with the word  _vulture_ perched on the tip of his dry tongue. ( _And another name on the tip of my tongue but I can't say it aloud because I don't know it! Can't say_ _it!_ WATCHING YOU _._ ) And here's the thing about dreams:

when it was a bad dream like Peter's, it made you fear going back to sleep. A curious detail that perhaps was a large contributor to Peter's staying out late. Or maybe he just wanted to be a vigilante. Who knows. Peter sure didn't. (He did.)

It was only about five minutes of Peter collecting himself after the nightmare ( _o, god! He was trapped under the building! Crushing! Crushing! Smashing! It was dark let him—_ _and—!_ ) that he heard a knock on the door. Peter perked up and quickly attempted to smooth his appearance.

"Peter?" That was Mr. Stark's voice. A pit formed in Peter's stomach—Tony was WATCHING him sleep. "Can I come in?" But his voice was soft and small and distant. Peter almost didn't respond, but that felt rude.

"Um..."  _It's your house,_ he thought bitterly. "Yes?"

The door slid open silently across the floor and Tony's figure was black with the backlight. With his enhanced vision, though, Peter could still see the pressed, thinned expression his mentor wore. (He really loved this kid—wanted, no, needed to know what was wrong. Maybe the whole Vulture incident had left more of a mark than he had thought. Who was he kidding—Peter was still a child. That would have traumatized anyone.) "FRIDAY told me you woke up. You want to talk?"

_Yes._ "Not really. Why?" If he started talking he wouldn't stop—Peter wasn't vain enough to admit he wasn't something of a blabbermouth. Would probably keep Mr. Stark up all night if he started now. Besides, he didn't have anything of worth to say. He let the monosyllabic answer speak for itself.

Silence soaked up the air for a moment before Tony let go of the breath he had evidentially been holding. Peter heard him release it with an enhanced intensity. Stark let the weight of his breath tear down Peter's defenses (—exasperated,  _what am I_ _going to do with this kid, just talk to me, please. You know how I worry—_ ) until the young spider was ready to relent. "It was just a nightmare, Mr. Stark. I-I'm okay now." (—just look at his eyes, even shadowed in the dark Tony could tell something was off with Peter. He used to be so bright. Maybe it was the pressures of hero-ing. That took its toll on everybody...

Tony knew all about the burden being a hero was. It wasn’t just about what the... villains did, it was about the people he saved and didn't save. In the end, the problem with being a hero was the people that needed saving. Tony couldn't imagine the load that must be on Peter. A kid, for god's sake. The knowledge that you save someone once in a mechanical—a spandex—suit and now you owe the world your life... Maybe it was selfish to think about gratitude or something like it. You try to do good and people will take you hostage.

This wasn't about him. "I get nightmares too," he supplied, hoping to lessen that hurt expression on the kid's face, "Sometimes I think it helps to talk about what happened. So I can move on." If the kid would only  _talk_  to him about what was going on—)

Peter pulled his knees up tight to his chest and didn't breathe for a second. He opened his mouth to be honest—

(The alleyway was empty. He looked down at his feet.)

—"Just... the Vulture, I guess." Close enough. "I—he—…"

Mr. Stark gave an odd little smile at that ( _Y_ _es! Tell me what's bothering you, Peter_ ) and took a seat on the bed by the kid's feet. Peter shifted consciously away.

"I just..." honesty, honesty, "...I think about it, is all. W-with the building—"

"Building?" Stark was suddenly upright, looking confused. Had... Peter never told him about that? Must have slipped his mind. But this felt like an... out. (An out so he wouldn’t have to talk about—)

Quietly musing over his thoughts, Peter took a moment to contemplate. Finally, he settled on, "It's just that... back when... well, the vulture dropped a building on... me..." (What? Stark searched over Peter's frame, eyes frantic and confused. But he was silent and caring.) "And I-I thought I was going to die—" and choked on a breath—"trapped under it. G-got out alo-o-o-one."

Tony jumped to Peter's side and wrapped an arm around him, saying "you're okay, I've got you. You're okay, Peter," like he didn't understand why Peter was so torn up about this. He  _didn't_ understand. Not at all. Because Tony wasn't good at emotions and because Peter was keeping secrets. The stubble that brushed against his soft cheek was SHARP. WATCH OUT. So Peter held his tongue. (I've got you, you're okay, Peter. Let me help you—) Holding his breath so as to not start crying over the things he kept to himself (don't cry, I've got you) but not about the Vulture, no. No, this was so much (Tony held on tighter and whispered little pleasantries—not good with children, but would be for Peter) worse. Worse than anything before because (whispered little secrets he'd never told anyone before just to make Peter feel safe and same) this time all the bad things in the world were his fault. So, no—Tony Stark didn't understand. ("And I've been so scared, just like you were, Peter—") And if he did understand what Peter was breaking over, then—WATCH OUT.

It's a dark world out there. (Humming softly under his breath that this poor boy would be the death of him.)

(Peter looked back up at the sky from where it hid behind a row of clouds. The moon blinked away to admit its shame. There wasn't anything to say about what had been done, so Peter asked the city for advice. THEY KNOW it said, towering and complete, THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID. YOU'D BETTER GET MOVING, PETER PARKER.)

Seven days. Seven and a half days. Peter couldn't sleep anymore.

There was an unspoken consequence to everything, so Peter enjoyed silence while it lasted. Mr. Stark seemed rather discontent with silence, though, and after half an hour of cradling Peter like the weak spirit he was, offered the boy breakfast.

"Isn't it... like, still afternoon?" He looked away abashedly, "or night?"

Stark smiled (paternally) watchfully and shrugged. "It's never not a good time for breakfast. 'It's breakfast time somewhere.'"

Peter rolled his eyes, then realized what he'd done and stared blankly at his (dirty, dirty) hands for a moment. Shaking from his thoughts, Peter let his stomach verbalize his more pressing and more physical desires. It growled a beastly noise and that (loving) suspicious glint in Tony's eyes sharpened.

And as such was the story of how Peter ate breakfast with  _the_ Tony Stark at four in the afternoon. 

Tony made pancakes, evidentially more able to cook than Peter even was. He served up their plates rather unequally—about three times as many on Peter's plate, but Peter wasn't altogether willing to complain. His stomach seemed to agree with that raucous growl of its.

Glancing down at his plate, Peter regarded the food with a sort of abject curiosity and dull caution. Mr. Stark was just a few feet away eating his admittedly smaller portion with a slow, deliberate ease. The pancakes seemed to hold Peter entranced for a moment, before he angled his body slightly away from Tony and took a small bite. After the first bite, the rest went down with an equal slowness and care. He was trying to reason the food out, as though it held some meaning, but knew rather obviously it was just food.

Peter went without food often enough that bigger meals like this seemed oddly foreign. May just didn't bring home enough money to feed a growing spider kid. Of course, this was mostly a passing thought.

Mr. Stark regarded him with a curious frown. Peter regarded Stark with a passive terror. In the end, neither said a word.

Until some thirty minutes had passed and Tony seemed rather displeased with the odd quiet. "I'll head down to my lab then, kid." He said, giving Peter a look quite indescribable (I'm concerned, kid. What's got you so quiet?) "You should get back to bed. We can take a look at your suit tomorrow morning. I've been thinking about some upgrades—" etcetera etcetera. Peter glanced away. (I'm concerned, kid. What's got you so nervous? You said about the building—) "So get to bed. Up." He waved Peter off the seat, ignoring the half-finished stack of pancakes, "Up!" (—you said about the building, but this doesn't feel like panic of that sort—)

It felt sort of like guilt.

Tony walked Peter to bed in silent contemplation (Mutely wondering the picked at food and the nervous stillness. The fearful eyes.) then shut the door to lock Peter into his darkness once more. The aloneness of the room was almost a relief. Peter didn't sleep. He stared up at the ceiling in vague wonderment—

Then he dreamt (somehow, suddenly, dreaming) of Seven and a half days prior.

(Tony tinkered about twenty more safety protocols for Peter's suit through all the night and halfway into the morning. FRIDAY quietly hummed from somewhere that Peter had up and walked out of the building give or take an hour ago. Tony let him leave—worried, curious, but frankly distant. He finished up the adjustments for the kid's suit and thought briefly to call Peter up and tell him to come back so they could load up the updates. Eh. He'd do it later. If Peter didn't want to stick around, Tony'd let this go. It wasn't like he had any right to tell him how to handle whatever was going on.

He paused. "Shit." Tony grumbled, pushing aside a keyboard and standing with a mostly exasperated urgency. Peter was most definitely his responsibility. Last time Peter dealt with something on his own a building was demolished, a national monument blew up, and a plane crashed. He should... probably be more upfront with the kid. Being passive was definitely not the way to go about things. He was partly just hesitant to commit to anything with this kid. Connections were not Tony Stark's specialty. Jeez...  He wasn't even sure anything was wrong with Peter, besides the general trauma, of course.

"Shit," it was a firmament, "This kid is going to be the death of me.")

Peter left just as dawn was cracking open the dark sky thinking  _Eight days have passed_ and he didn't finish the thought. The sun was staring down at him, the city screamed in his ears, and Peter didn't say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that tone shift i was talking abt is in here . . . the story doesnt really ever get that lighthearted stuff back
> 
> quick reminder that i have 4 / 5 chapters written rn but if yall dont like this i might stop after those ones ig


	3. Days III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt May sends him off to bed early just after dinner, commenting weakly on his white pallor and pressed expression. Peter doesn't tell her what's on his mind and he doesn't explain that he's not actually sick, just shameful. 
> 
> or, Peter has a conversation with New York City in a mostly nonliteral way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up: there is a rape/murder in this chapter. It doesn't happen to peter and isn't really described at all, but i wanted to put up a warning just in case...

(He still had the knife. Didn't know what to do with it. There was a spider crawling up his arm and it offered some advice. WATCH OUT.) 

 

There was a spider web spread out across Peter's window, but he'd just gone out to patrol a night ago so it must have formed recently. He usually climbed in through the window. The spider must work fast. He stared out at the street below through the web, wondering how it made the glass look dirty or cracked. Wondering how the street below looked dirty and cracked. 

"Peter!" May shouted from outside his door, voice heavy but vaguely distorted by the walls. Regardless, even the slightest shout was often screechy and painful to Peter's sensitive ears, so he jumped away from the window like he'd been burned.  

"Y-yes? Aunt May?" Peter left the window and pushed the cracked city out of mind to open the door. May was standing just outside the door with crossed arms and skewed glasses. It was midday. 

When she saw him, her whole figure deflated slightly (what did she see? She looked at me then fell apart—what did she see—WATCH OUT), "Oh, honey... you look exhausted. Is everything okay?" 

But at her gentled tone and honeyed eyes, Peter's spine only stiffened more. "Y-yes." He was okay. Everything was okay. 

She didn't look convinced. She was suspicious. "Why don't you sit down." Then didn't give him much choice as he was gently pushed into the sofa some five feet away. He sunk into the cushions like they were quicksand. May cleared her throat and settled in next to him, eyes a familiar shade of distrust (concern). "Peter... Tony called me last night saying you'd be staying the weekend. Don't get me wrong—I love having your company—but I thought you'd love to stay with you mentor—" Peter looked away "—for a few days. What's going on?" 

"Nothing." Peter sucked in a breath, tried to pull himself upright from the quicksand sofa, then deflated mostly entirely, "E-everything's fine. I'm fine. Just..." 

Her eyebrow quirked. Peter looked away. 

"...just wanted some space from..." He struggled for an answer that wasn't the truth for a moment (Eight and a half days ago—what happened eight and a half days ago—) "...from all that. Spider-Man." Close enough. It wasn't entirely a lie. 

But May didn't seem deterred. If anything, her eyes grew sharper. "It's not just that, Peter." She seemed to mull over something for a second, and Peter took the silence as the reprieve it was, "You... you passed out just yesterday. Exhaustion. Mal-malnutrition. Please. What's going on, Peter? I want to help you."  

"I'm fine." Peter repeated, "I'm fine. Just stayed out too late." 

"Peter—" 

"I had a talk with Mr. Stark. I'll be home earlier now. Promise." 

In the end, there wasn't much for May to say. Peter was wholly convinced he couldn't connect with anyone ever again.  _Eight and a half days ago... Something changed._  And silently, he couldn't sleep again, couldn't eat again, couldn't tell the truth again because Peter was guilty and shameful for it. Aunt May smiled hurtfully but didn't say a word. As things were, no words would have made a difference anyway. 

 

(Peter took the knife in his hands and gripped the handle. It was too big for his small hands. He wanted to drop it and leave. 

TOO LATE FOR THAT the city corrected TOO LATE TO STOP NOW 

He shook his head. Scratched nervously at his arms beneath the suit. 

A spider crawled along the edge of the knife. It told him TOO LATE TO STOP NOW, PETER. LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE) 

 

Peter swung from one building to the next, eyes oriented for trouble—or maybe not. He like the feeling of swinging because he wasn't connected to the ground below. Like he could let go and touch nothing at all. 

He stayed with May for maybe one hour longer before he got antsy and had to leave, telling her he had to patrol early to make up for coming in sooner at night. She didn't seem to believe him, but evidentially didn't care enough to stop him. Whatever. 

And suddenly: a cry. A child's cry, in fact, and Peter was abruptly alert and watching the streets with rapt attention. After a moment of blind searching, he locked onto a smallish boy—maybe four or five—sobbing quite meekly, yet utterly alone. Peter swung down to meet to the kid with a shaky, "Hey! You okay?" 

"I-I-I l-lost my d-daddy!" They bawled ugly tears. "M-mr. Spider-M-man, sir!" 

"W-well!" Peter stumbled, "Let's look for him then, huh?" 

The boy sniffed and wiped at their face. "R-r-really?" 

He almost shrugged but changed the motion into offering his hand instead. "What's you name, kid?" 

"W-Wil." And Wil took the offered hand. 

Peter nearly smiled beneath his mask but thought otherwise. "Then let's find your dad." 

It took almost ten minutes, but then the kid was running into his father's arms—both teary, but evidentially rather thankful. Peter watched them for a second, before turning to leave. And—yes—he heard Wil's father calling out an almost desperate "Thank you! You found my boy, thank—" but he wasn't really better off for it. (A part of Peter didn't quite get the sentiment—not anymore) 

He stayed out until dark and returned two more lost kids, anyway. 

 

Karen is mostly silent these days. Peter can't stand her voice, robotic and echoing like the sound of a thousand knives—that he be careful. That he watch out. So he turned her off after the third night. If Mr. Stark doesn't know, then that's fine too. 

 

Now, had Peter said he would be home early? Yes. But he hadn't exactly specified a time, so... He swung around for awhile, looking for trouble, but mostly just clearing his head. When the noise of the city wasn't there to distract him, Peter was caught up in remembering  _eight and a half days ago..._  

There was a shout somewhere below in the city. Quickly, peter let go of the web he'd been swinging from to land steadily on a building top and searched the ground below. The city was darker and emptier now, so he listened closer to follow the noise, slipping into the open window of the abandoned building he stood on to maintain some stealth (it was an odd thing). 

It was a girlish scream (Peter's heart clenched painfully). 

Peter angled himself behind a farther window until he could just see into an alleyway where some girl was backed up against harsh concrete by two or three brutish looking men. For all his heroics, Peter was silent; one of them held a knife, and Peter froze—flashed back. 

 

"And," Peter thought politely to New York, "Eight and a half days ago, I would have saved the girl already." 

 

 _(There was a shout from the alleyway just below Peter and to the right. He shot a web out at the adjacent building and swung closer to get a better view and a better idea of what was going on. There was a woman backed up to a wall and facing off against a bulky looking figure with a knife.)_  

THEY'RE WATCHING YOU PETER WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT! 

"Watch out for what?" Peter asked the city, glancing away from the present, where a girl was surrounded by three men, "What's going to get me?" 

He could distantly hear her screaming still—didn't move to save her. 

WATCH OUT the city repeated THEY KNOW—THEIR GOING TO GET YOU WATCH OUT! and all the little spiders in the city got up on their legs and sang along WATCH OUT PETER PARKER IT'S A DARK WORLD OUT THERE. WATCH OUT! 

 _(Peter didn't hesitate after seeing how sharp it was—how obvious the intention_ _was. He pounced off the rooftop and_ _landed two feet away from the man with the knife. It was glinting a dangerous color in the moonlight—Peter sucked in a breath._ _)_  

WATCH OUT PETER PARKER the spiders crawled up the walls, spun a web across the window pane Peter had been looking out of—where the men teamed up against her and stabbed at her legs. He watched the city through the web, eyes away from the alley. WATCH OUT THEY KNOW— 

 _("Let's put that down, huh?" Peter tried to diffuse the man, put off by his threatening posture._  

 _Karen broke in mechanical and cold, "Would you like me to activate your_ _taser_ _webs, Peter?"_  

 _Peter didn't answer, just stared down the man. He was silent and unapologetic for it._  

 _But the man didn't falter much,_ _evidentially_ _undeterred by the appearance of Spider-Man. But his voice shook cold, "H-hey! Stay back, Spider Guy! I-I'm not here for you!"_  

 _Then the woman cowering behind Peter was screaming or shouting things—like that the man was a coward or something like that—Peter was thinking it wasn't wise to shout things back at the man. He had a knife pointy, bright, and sharp. But she was—"You're a coward, Greg! Chasing me into an alley t-to_ _ki_ _-_ _i_ _-_ _i_ _-ill me like this!" Voice breaking and shattering even under her_ _own confident and justified façade. "_ _Just_ _because I slept around a little? Fucking get a grip, Gr—!!")_  

—THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID— 

 _(The man—Greg—charged forward but Peter was still_ _focus_ _ed_ _on the girl, saying "stop, don't provoke him, I can handle this if you'll just be quiet" couldn't focus over the screaming in his sensitive enhanced ears_ _but she wouldn't shut up. Karen's voice WATCH OUT PETER was sharp and sudden like the knife plunging right for Peter and right for the woman. He felt a sharp tearing in his stomach—and Peter—Peter didn't think he just acted, just grabbed the knife right out of his attacker's hand from_ _his bloody_ _stomach_ _and_ _pointed it away from the girl and—_  

 _and straight into the man's open chest.)_  

—LITTLE SPIDER— 

 _(Peter watched as Greg choked on his blood then collapsed in his own pool of red. He dropped the knife—sharp—on the concrete beside him. Heard a scream at the mouth of the alley—the girl had moved—_  

 _"Oh my god, what did you do to him?!" She screamed more_ _incessant_ _more sharp_ _, "You killed him, you monster!")_  

—DID A TERRIBLE THING. BETTER WATCH OUT— 

 _(Sobbing over his corpse while—Peter just stared down at his dirty_ _dirty_ _hands._  

 _He was alone in the alley when he next looked up from his dirty hands. The moon hid itself away behind a row of smog clouds. Peter stood up and breathed in shakily. He stared down at the corpse where it lay at it_ _feet_ _._  

 _"The man is dead, Peter." Karen chimed helpfully, "Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark for you?_ _)_  

—AND WHAT YOU'RE DOING NOW— 

 _(_ _"No!" Peter shrieked, but decidedly still needed council, so_ _he asked the city for advice and a billion little spiders sang the answer WATCH OUT!)_  

 _—IS MAYBE EVEN WORSE_  

The alleyway was suddenly very silent. After a moment, Peter could hear the slight laughter of the three men—joyous in their conquest. The woman wasn't screaming—but Peter felt mostly numbed by his own action previous and inaction now. He left the webbed window behind, swung back to his apartment, and slept. 

Peter killed a man eight and a half days ago. He let a woman be killed today, quiet and unimportant behind a cracked window. And Peter—triumphant with his grotesqueness—didn't say a word. 

 

Peter couldn't remember what had happened during the days just prior to the Incident—to the loss of a life at his own hands. This wasn't because these days were particularly traumatic, but because they were so average, and Peter could no longer fathom a day spent without worry or care. A day spent without anxiety directing his every move. So Peter stopped thinking something so peaceful could ever exist, and he had only himself to blame. Nine days had since passed since Peter knew what it felt like to be content. 

He hacked the suit and cleared the footage of him letting that girl die, anyway. It felt like the world was breathing down his neck, telling Peter to keep it a secret. 

 

Aunt May called him over to the TV when he got up on the ninth day to show him the news: WOMAN FOUND RAPED AND MURDERED IN ALLEYWAY, POLICE WITHOUT LEADS. She told him what a terrible thing that was. Told him to look out for anything like that and put a stop to it. Peter didn't really have anything to say to that. 

YOU KILLED THAT MAN the city bristled AND YOU LET THAT WOMAN BE KILLED 

Peter hugged himself. Aunt May was still squinting, concerned, as the news buzzed on dutifully. "Yes." He said. 

The city was quiet for a moment, silence corrected by a reporter's steady ticktack voice, then YOU'RE A MONSTER, LITTLE SPIDER 

"Yes, probably," Peter was feeling quite dull. After a second, he added, "But—neither was really my fault. I-I mean... I still saved that first woman nine days ago. And last night—well, I—" 

YOU FROZE 

"I froze. Because of nine days ago. It's not my fault." He was floundering, hoping maybe to excuse himself of the guilt—hoping maybe to improve upon it. 

The city rumbled thoughtfully, so Peter turned to watch May. Her eyes were still locked on the screen, but when he turned to see the news, Peter saw that she'd changed the channel. It was playing some cooking show—he wondered to the sound of burning meat and sizzling eggs that he was a murderer. He wanted to reason out of the guilt gnawing at his chest. 

YOU THOUGHT the city returned YOU COULD MAKE UP FOR WHAT YOU'D DONE BY PATROLLING MORE 

"Exactly." 

BUT YOU ONLY MADE IT WORSE. YOU ALWAYS MAKE THINGS WORSE, PETER 

"...yeah." They were pulling something bloody out of an oven on screen. 

THEY'LL FIND OUT WHAT YOU DID. THEY'LL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID 

"They won't kill me," he thought of Mr. Stark and shivered, "That's illogical." 

New York seemed to smile. ISN'T IT? 

May raised an eyebrow as the contestant served the judges the burnt meat and the raw meat unflinchingly. 

BUT, there was a spider on the screen, YOU STILL COVERED IT UP, DIDN'T YOU, LITTLE SPIDER? 

The judges ate the meals without blinking. 

Mutely, the spider seemed triumphant. 

 

(He took the knife to the river and dropped in it, dirty hands shaking and breath scattered unevenly. There was sinking sound some thirty feet below where Peter stood, so he tried letting out a calming breath. It didn't work. 

His hands were still dirty and the sky was still shadowed as it watched over him. Peter sucked in air but didn't turn away from the river flooding mutely underneath him. He didn't feel better in the slightest, so he sedately turned to the city for council. 

A spider weaved a delicate web between two lampposts that cast no light at all. It took a moment to think, then spun the answer with eight crooked legs. WELL, it wrote, IT'S A DARK WORLD OUT THERE. YOU'D BETTER WATCH OUT, PETER PARKER. YOU'RE IN TOO DEEP TO STOP NOW.) 

 

Aunt May sends him off to bed early just after dinner, commenting weakly on his white pallor and pressed expression. Peter doesn't tell her what's on his mind and he doesn't explain that he's not actually sick, just shameful. 

When he huddles under two blankets and squeezes his eyes tight, Peter doesn't think about a knife cast away under a bridge, and he most certainly doesn't think about the fresh pile of ashes trapped in an old warehouse by the sea. He just thinks that when he wakes up tomorrow, it will have been ten days. Then he doesn't go to sleep. 

 

(Peter hacked the suit and cleared the footage of the man dying at his hands. 

Then he burnt the body until it was just blackened meat.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that i already have chapters 4 and 5 written up ... next update sometime next week. who knows
> 
> also: i am aware this chapter is chaotic and ? frankly hard to read?? i have no idea how to write?? lol.....  
> anyway, enjoy i guess ? thanks for reading/kudos/bookmarks/comments : ) seeing that y'all like this really makes my day
> 
> .. . i should probably get to work on the next chapter now , ,,,,,,,,, ,, ,, ,,


	4. Days IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Apple, New York, his city.

By midnight, Peter is in Philidelphia—alone and unnoticed. This is how it starts:

Peter goes back to school. It's Monday, and in a blind panic he forgot how he'd left school on Friday—passed out and undernourished. He still hasn't eaten enough or slept enough, but now more so than before he knows that he deserves to suffer. May didn't bring it up again and didn't change how she treated him. Peter feels sort of like a jumble, and he deserves that too.

The first thing Peter hears when he gets to school is Flash's loud, "Penis! You gonna pass out again?!"

To which Peter mostly didn't understand the taunt, and also didn't care. He turned in the direction of the shout, eyes half-lidded and mouth a dull line. It was—ten days since he became a killer. What was bullying next to what he really deserved? Flash's angry look was sudden in Peter's view, but the subsequent shove into a row of lockers felt soft in comparison to the judging sounds of New York.

"Are you ignoring me?" Flash barked, pushing Peter against the lockers once more. There was something watchful in his gaze—probably afraid that he wouldn't get away with his torment if Peter passed out again. "Hey!"

Staring blankly at Flash, Peter sort of just let the bully go on shouting and poking. Something about it felt just. He just sort of... stood there? Whatever—Flash seemed to grow more irritated and severe at his lack of overt reaction. (Thinking, Peter used to scream when he was hit—cry when he was teased. Flash didn't like the dull look he was getting instead. Something about Peter was absolutely chilling. He didn't say this aloud.)

"Let go of him, Flash!" Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught sight of Ned bounding towards them. Good Friend Ned.

And—Ned's eyes widened some, Peter dropped back to stability—Flash shot the larger boy a sharp look and did indeed let Peter go. Then he left with only the passing, grating remark of, "Whatever, Freak. As if I'd want to stick around with you two anyway."

Ned hummed, looking confused—(Flash, thinking Peter's no fun to bully when he looks so dead)--then turned back to his friend. "What did he want this time?" Not seeing the EVIL in Peter's face like Flash had.

Shrugging, Peter toyed with the fraying strap on his backpack. "Nothing."

"Well..." Ned wore that bothered expression again (Peter's spine stiffened slightly, but then he deflated at the realization), "...I don't get why you let him pick on you like that. You know you could stop him anytime. You're Spider-Man."

It was probably concern, but Peter was feeling sick. He wasn't going to respond to Ned, and the bell ringed to excuse him from the conversation. Peter went to class. Ned trailed behind.

Peter slept through this class last week. He should probably pay attention.

But here's the thing: ten days ago, he killed a man then went to gross extremes to cover it up, and one day ago he had been so caught up in the ordeal that he'd let someone else be violently killed. A lot of things about his situation bothered Peter, but maybe what drove him to a soulful weariness was the lack of... conversation. No one asked him about the deaths—for all intents and purposes, Peter thought, no one actually knew about the deaths in relation to him. It made Peter think that he'd gotten away with it.

The thought made Peter sick. He didn't listen to the teacher lecture. Whatever they had to say wasn't important. They couldn't give Peter what he was looking for.

He wrote in his notebook a message from the city—

At lunch, Peter was the same person. No one knew how monstrous he could be.

MJ was studious—or at the very least reading. He didn't look at the title, but she was immersed enough. Ned was getting food from the cafeteria. Peter was—silent. He'd brought a lunch today. May had pushed it into his hands this morning with a stern, maternal sort of look to her. It almost made Peter feel warm and fuzzy inside. (It made him want to purge.)

He pulled out an apple from the sack—thought mutely of The Big Apple, New York, his city, then sobered up—, but just rolled it around on the table listlessly.

...YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EAT IT?

Haltingly, Peter held the apple still at a crooked place. He let the air ring still for a moment. "No. I-I don't think I can eat it. I feel sick."

YOU JUST FEEL GUILTY

"Shameful. Evil." Peter corrected lingeringly. "Bad. Monstrous."

YES. THAT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE A MONSTER. EAT THE APPLE.

The apple rattled the table when Peter dropped it fully. MJ looked up at him, eyebrow quirked. "Sorry," he mumbled, then turned back to the apple.

EAT THE APPLE

"Why? I can't stomach it."

At once, Peter saw it. There was a spider crawling out from the underside of the table. It sauntered toward his apple, proud and unapologetic. It said, THEY'LL FIGURE IT OUT IF YOU ACT STRANGELY. THEY'LL KNOW WHAT YOU DID

He shot a glance back toward MJ, nervous. She was reading her book again. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, but the spider was firmly put on the apple now. Eight eyes apple red and body the color of New York. "Th-that's not... bad. I-I-I mean—..."

EAT THE APPLE the spider hissed EAT THE APPLE LIKE A NORMAL PERSON WOULD OR ELSE THEY'LL FIND OUT YOU'RE A MONSTER

"Mr. Stark wouldn't—!" Peter didn't need to hear what came next. He already knew—

HE ALREADY DOES. YOU SHOULDN'T TRUST HIM. EAT THE APPLE

"I'm not hungry."

THEY'LL KILL YOU

"They won't."

YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH IT. EVERYTHING CAN GO BACK TO NORMAL—

More than anything, Peter wanted that.

—IF YOU JUST EAT THE APPLE

He wanted Mr. Stark to know—to hate him, so Peter could face the things he'd done. But he also wanted to just pretend none of this happened. It all seemed so... unreal. Illogical.

THERE'S NOTHING MORE LOGICAL THAN THE FEAR OF EVERYTHING, LITTLE SPIDER

Mr. Stark wouldn't kill him. No one would kill him. He had to face this. Face what he had done.

TEN DAYS HAVE PASSED. YOU BURNT THE BODY, HID THE KNIFE. YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR TO BACK OUT NOW

"He'll understand!" Peter pressed, "He'll help me!"

YOU'RE DETESTABLE, PETER. EAT THE APPLE OR THEY'LL HUNT YOU DOWN

Suddenly, a slam! Ned dropped his tray down next to Peter's brown bag lunch, then sat beside Peter with an equal exhaustion. His food had the distinct scent of grease, and Peter's stomach did a little turn. Ned laughed at Peter scrunched up face. "Dude! You're just jealous I got pizza when all you've got is an apple!"

MJ piped up from behind her book. "No one is jealous of your underfunded school lunch, Ned." Her lips quirked into a smile and Ned snorted a little. MJ's eyes were sharply and suddenly watching Peter. Watching the crimson of his apple reflected in his eyes.

"So," Ned turned to Peter, grin bright and content, "Can you believe the sub in English gave us a project?! How are we expected to do it by—"

Peter smiled weakly, eyes untouched and plain, and took a bite out of the apple. It was a bittersweet flavor. MJ didn't seem convinced.

Peter walked home. The second the bell was ringing he was up and out the door. (If Flash saw him, he was silent. If Ned saw him, he was quietly concerned. If MJ saw him, she was mutely curious.) He wanted home early for the same reason he didn't want to go home at all.

He wanted the normalcy of Aunt May but dreaded it in equal measure. She was comfort blind and true, but Peter deserved to be told off, hurt, punished... something. And he wanted her to never find out. It was a complex ordeal.

The city hummed a car's horn in agreement.

Mostly, Peter was caught up in the words of dearly departed Uncle Ben: With great power comes great responsibility. Peter had power in great bounds. He thought he'd had responsibility. Tried to help everyone he could, fix everything he could... Couldn't do a damn thing. Tricked himself into thinking it was a blip, something he could overcome. Something small all...  _heroes_  went through. The first death. But—he wasn't a hero and it wasn't  _just_ a death. That was one—two—human lives erased. None of this was about him. It wasn't about being a vigilante and dealing with what he'd done. It was about the human lives gone forever. There wasn't any way to make it simpler than that.

There wasn't any qualifier that could excuse those deaths. Peter thought with a bit of worry that New York would hate him for what he'd done, but only received the bitter smell of a metal city in return.

There was someone in the apartment with May. Peter heard the hushed, tense conversation however muffled it was, through the door, and his hand stilled over the knob. He couldn't tell who it was. Maybe just one of May's friends. Maybe—

He steeled himself and turned the knob.

Mr. Stark.

Just sort of—standing there. Powerful and just. Juxtapose May's quiet confidence beside him and Peter grew cold.

"Kid!" Mr. Stark called, looking a bit tense, or something, "I brought the updates on my laptop. I was just going to load them into the suit. You want to take a look?"

There was a spider on the wall. THEY KNOW the tiny being screamed, spider-like and holy GET OUT GET OUT

"They don't... They  _can't_ know." Peter reassured the spider, suddenly on edge. Anxiety flushed through his body and his breathing picked up roughly. He dropped his backpack just to hear it thud—and also because his chest was feeling tight. "I—we—everything is gone. I'm fine."

(Everything would go back to normal if he just hid it, that's what he'd thought, that everything could go back to normal if no one ever found out—)

It crawled up the wall, then spun a web down over Peter's head. LOOK IN THEIR EYES—

He could see Aunt May's gaze lose it's fondness. Tony tensed up at Peter's increasing panic. Tony's eyes were beacons, thinned and worried. May's face was scrunched and pained. (Concern—why did he just stop like that? Panic attack? No... Tony thought the kid might have some of that childish glee at seeing his mentor... Things were worse than he'd thought. If only—) Tony reached an arm out to Peter but he pulled back when Peter stepped away reflexively. "Kid? Just talk to us. I'm—We're here to help. What's going on?"

"Please." Aunt May added, her gaze flitting across Peter's fragile form. His suit was pulled up next to them. Tony's laptop. Peter saw them for what they were: evidence of his evil.

—DO YOU SEE IT it landed on Peter's cheek THEY DON'T TRUST YOU, LITTLE SPIDER

"That's not true. I hid the knife. I got rid of the body. They don't know what happened."

BUT LOOK AT THEIR EYES the spider weaved a bridge to Peter's shoulder LOOK AT THE LAPTOP AND THE SUIT. THEY KNOW AND THEY HATE YOU. THEY'RE GOING TO KILL YOU. And Peter knew it. In that moment he saw through the web-cracked window of his shameful eyes and into Tony's and May's cloudless ones that THEY KNOW. THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

Peter stepped back again with wide eyes and heavy breaths. GET OUT. Tony took a step towards him, arm out to steady Peter's shoulder and— Peter didn't think, he just reacted. Shot a web at his mentor (always, always kept his web shooters handy. Never know when the people you love will betray you like you betrayed them) and glued him to the wall. Tony struggled, shouting ("Peter! Damnit, don't leave! What the hell is—"). But even Iron Man couldn't break the webs. Not without his suit. And Aunt May—she didn't even reach for Peter. There were tears soggy and sad in her eyes. A shaky breath, an uncomprehending askance of, "Peter..?" Tony struggled, May cried, Peter—GET OUT GET OUT—turned and ran out the door. He didn't look back. The city was wide and loud and whole—then Peter was gone. The spider chanted along to the pounding footsteps Peter left in his wake WATCH OUT, PETER PARKER. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THEY CATCH YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID. WATCH OUT.

(Webbed up by his student and son, Tony Stark heaved a sigh and stopped struggling. He wouldn't be getting out until it dissolved. Peter was too brilliant in making the solution for it to be tugged away so easily and so soon. He had an hour or so to contemplate where Peter would go and... well, it was almost funny even in the bleakest of moments, but he really hadn't the foggiest idea why Peter had run off. This kid—)

(They'd read it in his notebook when they find it two hours later in the backpack he'd left behind. He'd written in it a message from the city just that morning during class—

YOU'LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR)

The spider on his shoulder said its name was New York, and it told Peter what to do. WATCH OUT it said THEY'LL FIND YOU IF YOU'RE SO OBVIOUS even though Peter was wandering aimlessly around the city, trying to find some logic and sense to the world. DON'T BE STUPID New York said EVERYTHING HAS A PURPOSE AND AN ORDER. THAT'S HOW THEY KNOW YOU KILLED A MAN, LITTLE SPIDER

"Th-they might not know." Peter hesitantly put in, "I... It's not on the news. I haven't seen anything on the news. I've been looking."

THEY KNOW. LEAVE THE CITY. THEY WON'T FOLLOW YOU IF YOU LEAVE THE CITY

Peter pushed passed a group of people huddled around a bus-stop. Started running past it—couldn't be still. But New York gave him pause GET ON THE BUS. LEAVE THE CITY

"I killed someone. Running away won't change that."

CAN'T CHANGE ANYTHING NOW. THEY WANT YOU DEAD. YOU NEED TO COMMIT

Stuttering, Peter flailed to find contentment, "where would I go? I-I can't just leave. Spider-man—"

ANYWHERE BUT HERE. THEY'RE WATCHING YOU

And if it wasn't that the whole world was pressing down on Peter's shoulders, punishing him for what he'd done and what he'd done to hide it—… Peter turned and got on the bus. He took a seat near the front and rode it for hours. The spider chanted NEW YORK IS THE WORLD and crawled across his cheek, powerful and small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late update bc i lost motivation. ugh  
> i dont remember writing this but past me seemed to have their stuff together haha.......
> 
> side note: i tend to go heavy on symbols and metaphors but i either dont explain them at all or over explain them? a warning that this is basically unreadable  
> also: i have chapter seven (?? i think) done or something like that? so get hyped i haven't completely given up on this yet l o l
> 
> ugh


	5. Whole Wide World I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHE'S GLAD TO HAVE YOU GONE.   
> Peter knew it was true, but that didn't make it sting any less the emptiness that came from having to sleep away from home. 
> 
> or, there are consequences to everything, but this seems disproportionately small. (Nothing really happens.)

"Oh gosh," Peter groaned into his sleeve, "I assaulted Mr. Stark. I ran away from home."

YOU CAN'T GO BACK

"I can't go back." Letting out another world-weary sigh, Peter leaned further into himself. "If he didn't know before about ten—eleven days ago, then he sure does now. If not that he still has reason to kill me after I left him webbed up like that."

New York crawled across Peter's face. It seemed to smile at Peter's words.

"I—okay," he hummed, running a nervous hand through his hair, "I need to—no, umm..."

SOMEWHERE TO SLEEP

"Somewhere to sleep," Peter affirmed, looking around. It was dark now—the moon probably somewhere above (he didn't look for it). He was in... Philidelphia. Three-point-five hours later and four busses found Peter decently far away from his city—it was sort of a breath of fresh air to be away from the pressures of New York.

In a more real sense, Peter was actively terrified. He'd started with some cash in his pocket, but that was mostly gone now. He still needed a place to sleep and—his stomach grumbled noisily—something to eat. Gosh... maybe this was a mistake.

IT WASN'T New York said ANYTHING IS BETTER THAN STAYING IN THE CITY

"Yeah, of course." Peter wheezed out a heavy sigh. He couldn't stay there. Not with Mr. Stark's raging hatred and disappointment. Besides, Aunt May—

WOULD HAVE KICKED YOU OUT IF SHE KNEW the spider finished neatly

—wouldn't have wanted a killer under her roof, for sure. He'd gotten off the bus some nonspecific number of minutes ago and had just started walking. Wandering evidentially rather without aim around. He was on some quaint looking street, both rundown and busy in the same breath. Still, he didn't see any motels. Not that he had the money. Peter sighed again.

"This was a bad idea."

New York made a soft noise from his face. YOU DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE

Some hundred feet ahead, Peter saw the buildings start to gather themselves up—looking more put together and city-like. A poor resolution replication of New York. The business of the area—or how he imagined it would be when the sun came up—shook Peter's vague resolve, and he turned left in the direction of some beat up looking apartments that reminded him of home. He rushed to leave them behind.

"Yes I did. I could have faced what I did." Walked under a tree that had grown over the street and came out walking towards what looked like the back of an elementary school.

YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN MAKING A MISTAKE

And down the lane again, wincing at the dirty houses. He came to a stop under the moon's careful grace. "Maybe. It's just—maybe running away was worse."

Peter inspected the building he had stopped before. It was crummy and blue with boarded up and broken window. Graffiti was painted haphazardly about, advertising the name of someone Peter would never meet. The house was so obviously empty—if not by its ramshackle appearance then by the tangerine Do Not Trespass sign pasted lamely to the boarded-up door.

With a sigh heavy and done, Peter pulled the wood back, already resigned to his fugitive character. It came off with a loud snap as the bolts he hadn't noticed before popped out under Peter's superior strength. The groaning and popping stilled Peter—he waited with baited breath for it to clear the air back into silence, but when it did, Peter still held his breath broken and cold.

GO INSIDE BEFORE SOMEONE SEES YOU, PETER

Peter placed the board back up behind him, shutting the room into darkness. With shadows pressing in all around him, Peter choked on the dusty air and hugged himself tightly. Any sort of comfort would remedy his fear and self-hatred, maybe. Probably not. Through the haze of two-inch thick dust and grime, Peter tried to listen for the presence of someone else in the house—just in case—but was relieved only to hear the slight tick-tack of a tree knocking into one of the boarded-up windows.

Breathing a sigh of relief (with the tickle of a dust-touched nose), Pete stepped further into the dwelling. He hated the idea of being away from home now more than ever. The house was cold and dirty and unfurnished, but there he was anyway. And where was May? Either distraught over his unexplained vanishing or maybe content in her empty house (glad to be away from his bother). It didn't matter, really. She was a comfort and her home was a comfort—and Peter was alone.

New York took a liking to the musty surroundings, and Peter mutely noted the collection of insects and arachnids crawling about the place with an odd dissatisfaction. They spun a crooked web through an open doorway. SHE'S GLAD TO HAVE YOU GONE.

Peter knew it was true, but that didn't make it sting any less the emptiness that came from having to sleep away from home.

JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY. The spider chastised, YOU CAN'T STAY HERE TOO LONG. THEY'LL FIND YOU.

Peter imagines his phone is blowing up with missed calls and ignored texts—Tony and May and maybe Happy trying to get in touch with him, trying to find him—and he finds almost a cruel poetry in it, because he's well acquainted with being ignored. Flashback to homecoming and Peter's left dealing with things out of his depth again. Alone. It almost feels rewarding to be the one doing the ignoring. Almost.

THEY AREN'T CALLING YOU New York hums from where it's perched on its web.

"They might be," Peter counters, because he can, "Mr. Stark wanted me to stay. Why wouldn’t he be calling me?"

New York seemed distressed, or perhaps just exasperated in a way words cannot express HE'S TRACKING YOUR PHONE, LITTLE SPIDER. HE ALREADY KNOWS YOU DON'T HAVE IT WITH YOU. HE'S WATCHING YOU ALWAYS

A chill ran up Peter's spine; that was right. Tony was always monitoring him and tracking him. Maybe it was a good thing that in his panic, Peter had left his backpack—his phone—at the apartment. With the protocols and the stern words... Peter was a fool to think Mr. Stark would actually bother with calling his phone. "Then..." he was hesitant, "does he know where I am now? Like... could he track me this far?" Peter glanced around the ugly house, trying to imagine if Stark would even bother to come find him.

YES

"Wh—!"

THAT'S WHY YOU NEED TO KEEP MOVING. IT ISN'T SAFE HERE. NOT ANYWHERE—WATCH OUT

A beat of stillness passed over the broken, boarded house, and Peter nodded slightly to fill the void. He felt so alone in the quiet. Peter went through the doorway that New York had highlighted with their flimsy, imagined web to find on the other side what maybe had once been a living room, but now was just water-stained carpet.

At least there was carpet. He laid down on it, grunting at the stiff angle of his back and choking on the salty tears building up behind his lids. Peter willed himself not to cry and was entirely unsuccessful. New York watched on as Peter's face became the ocean—sad, weeping, and whole.

Peter fashioned a bed out of the nothing he was given and made a pillow out of dust. It wasn't comfortable in the slightest, but Peter was out like a broken light.

(It was passed midnight, and Peter's phone hadn't rung even once. Calling would have been a fruitless endeavor. May had locked herself in her nephew's room, openly weeping over Peter's misshapen scrawl:

YOU'LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOUR LOOKING FOR

so she didn't look at all.)

Tony did look.

The webs disintegrated, the clock struck a too-late hour, and Tony began to work. His kid was out there, evidentially on the streets, for seemingly no reason in Tony's grasp of knowledge. He should have known this was big. Peter had certainly been acting strange of late, but he had chocked it up to tests, or Toomes, or even that kid that picks on Peter (which Peter would obsessively downplay—not that Tony hadn't already called the school about this "Flash" kid, seemingly to no effect). But running away and—not just that. There had been real terror in Peter's eyes when he had walked through the door. Not that Tony could fathom why. He was used to seeing that childish adoration and boundless eagerness to please that Peter always had when he saw Tony, not poorly masked horror. Stark had to reassess the situation.

  1. Peter was afraid of him (and May?) 
  2. He hasn't been eating or sleeping lately
  3. It's bad enough that Peter would run away 
  4. He didn't tell anyone, and Karen hadn't alerted him of anything 



This called for some investigation.

First order of business was, rather obviously, the suit. Karen (why did Peter name her that, again?) kept a video log of everything that happened when Peter was out in the suit. If that was the source of the problem, it would be a good place to start. He had the suit there with him—and a laptop, too.

He sent a wary glance at where May had scampered off to—mostly concerned with his own level of concern where he never thought it could exist. What could he say? The kid had a way of winning people over.

When he was sure May wouldn't be coming out so soon (cautious over her seeing the suit's footage, knowing Peter was hesitant about telling May what dangers he faced nightly.  _Ugh._  Tony felt a twang in his heart at the thought of how well he knew this kid), Tony pulled up the laptop he'd brought with him and opened up Karen's log, and—

heaved out a weary sigh. He didn't even know where to start with this. When did Peter start acting weird again? Before Friday, for sure. He was jumpy and tense all night. Peter had passed out that morning too, so whatever this was probably started a bit earlier... Tony settled for the obvious action.

"FRI," he bopped the computer a little, maybe playful or something else (who knows), "anything in here that would be enough to throw spider-kid into a fit?"

The screen was silent for a second, then, "...not that I can see, Boss. Although some of the footage appears to be missing."

"…what?" That was odd. He was sure Karen's system was flawless. He'd made it himself. "What footage is gone?" Better to figure that out first.

"...All of the footage from eleven days ago is not present in the system. It also appears that all of the footage from Saturday is missing as well."

Brow creased, Tony clicked through the footage himself and, sure enough, chunks of it were just missing. That was... strange. He was confident that the system wouldn't wipe itself like that on its own, which left one option: Peter—or Peter's friend... Ted?—had erased the footage.

FRIDAY interrupted his musings. "It also appears that Karen has been muted. Would you like me to turn her back on?"

Even more confusing—a jumbled of things that didn't fully add up. Tony knew for a fact that Peter was overly attached to the AI. He knew they had full blown, unnecessarily human conversations—for a robot and a spider. "Yes." He said instead, and jerkily stole the suit from where it was lying beside him. He soundlessly patched Karen though his computer.

"Mr. Stark." The AI hummed to a start.

He should tell Karen to call him Tony—maybe work the kid into skipping the honorifics. But... this wasn't really the time. Peter might not even be coming back (don't think that, don't think that... he's a good kid). "Fill me in, Karen."

"...I'm afraid I can't do that. Some footage seems to be missing."

Tony let out a world-weary sigh. "Yeah, I know. Anything useful? Like where the kid might be heading? Or what might have happened?"

"I have been turned off for about eight days. Peter has not made contact with me since." A little snarky, but Tony wasn't in the mindset to argue.

"FRIDAY—"

Peter's door opened suddenly and Stark jumped somewhat to see May walk out red eyed and weary. She placed something in front of Tony, and he belatedly realized it was the kid's notebook. A shiver ran up his spine, unnecessary and cold.

It all felt sort of irrelevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oh. i updated.
> 
> anyway.  
> thanks for the really sweet comments. they mean alot  
> but you dont have to pretend you like this haha... i wrote this knowing it wasnt what folks liked to read.  
> ah. regardless...  
> welcome to part 2, Whole Wide World. i dont know how many chapters this part will be.  
> its nice to have made it this far
> 
> uh... i have a much better idea of where i want this fic to go now? ill try not to let this fic get too long, anyway. thx


	6. Whole Wide World II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about the truth was so utterly childish. 
> 
> aka, Peter takes a moment to contemplate his youth.

_—and all the world was gone._

_Peter was faintly aware of a haziness to the air, but he didn't question it. Aunt May was just in front of him, looking sad and small. Her face was a blend of emotions Peter couldn't name if not for hatred, or something. Her eyes were needles._

_"You left me," she screeched, "all alone."_

_Peter floundered, reaching out to his aunt, then pulling back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You wouldn't understand."_

_"I'm your aunt. The only one left who hasn't left you—" mom, dad, uncle ben, "—and you just leave me?!"_

_"I'm sorry." Peter sobbed, "I'm weak. I'm sorry."_

_"You are weak." Mr. Stark came out from behind him, blocking Peter's escape. "A child. You do more bad than good,_ _Underoos_ _."_

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm sorry."_

_"So weak. So immoral." Tony berated him, "After what you did. Eleven days ago."_

_Peter felt his breath still, his heart quicken. "I'm sorry. I couldn't stop in time. I was so scared. I am so scared. I'm sorry."_

_Aunt May stepped forward, saying, "You're a monster, Peter. You killed a man and let a woman be killed. What if that had been me? You let me die."_

_"Killer," Tony amended harshly._

_"I thought you were good—" Aunt May, then—_

_Mr. Stark, "—I thought you were better than me—"_

_Together, crooked souls, "—but you're just a monster, after all, huh, Peter? We know WHAT YOU DID._

_BETTER WATCH OUT, LITTLE SPIDER."_

_GET OUT, GET OUT! Peter needed away from everything. From the people who hated him and from the things he deserved. He tried to run, but his feet were bear on shards of ugly glass. It dug into his soles and deadened them. He knew Aunt May was still chanting evilness in time with Tony so Peter clasped his hands over his ears. Tried to run again but his feet were bloodied and poor. Looked up from the reddened glass below. Saw a hundred small spiders wearing shoes._

__

Peter woke up. (Reality was just the same as his dream.)

He came to coated in sweat with heart pounding furious and loud—but still somehow oddly chilled. Peter groaned, feeling out his back stiff and sore from curling up on the floor. When he tried to sit up, achy legs gave a mighty protest. Peter wanted to lay there all day—let his body work out its aches. Moving hurt.

THEY'LL FIND YOU New York chimed, crawling across the floor as though it were a great expanse, IF YOU DON'T GET MOVING NOW

Peter thought of his dream. Thought of Aunt May condemning him for abandoning her and Mr. Stark berating him for disappointing his expectations (supposed to be  _better_ than him..!). Peter shakily stood up. It was a rough approximation of waking.

"I've already lost so much," Peter assented, "Lost family, friends... I can't do that again. Can't face them again." Peter thought, belatedly and harshly, that the love he felt for May and Tony and Ned and MJ—that love was maybe all his world. Maybe that was too on the nose...

New York observed him with apple red eyes. AND ALL THE WORLD IS GONE

Peter agreed, faintly and small, "New York is the world," and he wondered where it had gone.

But... for all intents and purposes, there wasn't much time to dwell on the matter. Not only in the sense that—yes—he was technically on the run from Iron Man, of all people (he's not looking for you, doesn't love you—and—he hates you, hunting you down to gut you like a fish), but also in regards to his grumbling monster of a stomach. It was a lion with roars vicious and tyrannical in askance, or rather demand, of food. A part of him wanted to stay still forever, the other part was a hungry teenager.

It was rather this obvious motivation that drew Peter from his strangely prone form—hunger. Metabolism aside, he was still a growing teen boy (this thought was rather irksome, or at the very least too complicated for New York to characterize quite right).  So Peter got up from the floor, old and grimy as it was, with a mild protest only heard by himself. In theory his standing was answer enough to the issue at hand, but in actuality, it didn't actually solve anything.

Peter didn't have any money to buy food with, so he set out to wander. This is the only reasonable response to running away, as in being lost and without aim.

He left the building in much the same manner as he had entered it, which is to say perhaps with little grace about him. There was still that... school just across the street, only now it was busy and loud. Children were probably running about in the recess area Peter had passed last night, only he couldn't actually see them now so much as hear them (noisy, squeaky, small). If he tried hard enough, Peter would be able to discern what each child was saying, but only got so far as to hear one call for their best friend in a loud, innocent voice before he grew weary and sad.

LIKE NED, New York bemoaned for him.

Peter fixed his posture and started his walk down the street in the opposite direction he'd come from originally, thinking that it didn't need to be said aloud that he missed how things used to be. "Yes," he said instead of all of this, not that it needed to be spoken, "maybe. Sure. Or—something else."

LIKE INNOCENCE, New York bewailed for him, LIKE PURITY, over the tune of children laughing.

And that seemed maybe to better fit Peter's mood, so far as he was willing to express it, so he simply said, "yes," even though the word itself was a lie. Life was only sometimes that complex. Sometimes you just missed your best friend, and that was it.

But saying something like that would easily invalidate Peter's character, so he didn't say it, and New York seemed content to let that train of thought slip away. Everyone knew how shallow the world sometimes was, and that was enough. Maybe it hurt New York, too.

In the end, it didn’t really matter the specifics. Peter hurried past the school with eyes downcast and face taught with quiet sadness. He thought maybe if someone saw him they might be berate him for skipping school and ask about his parents. (They wouldn’t. No one cares.) Anyway, Peter jogged passed the school to the sound of children playing petty games, entirely unable to shake the brutality of youth from his frame until the school was no longer in sight—and until the power of New York unmasked itself in the schoolyard.

When it had, Peter looked up.

He had come to a four-way intersection. If he kept going straight, it looked like the town picked up a bit and cleaned itself off. He knew to the right would run into something that looked much busier. The bustle of a big city made Peter sort of nauseous. It reminded him of home. So Peter turned left, hoping it was as ramshackle as he felt.

And there was a building then that drew attention with its own garish pride. The building was colored like a stain glass window—vibrant and proud, but powerful all the same. Or maybe like a quilt. Written on the building was—perhaps a poem? He couldn't put a name to it, but it gave him a slight chill. It read, loud and strong, but Peter latched on to the wall he was facing most, which read:

_"This rock won't break up, and it does not respond to my questions."_

He walked around the building to read the other side—another part of a larger story written there in circular script:

_"I was bewildered by the mystery of my ambition"_

In the pleasant still of Philadelphia, Peter wondered why he was there at all, why he hadn't before been contented with the youthful pleasures of Aunt May's care. New York spun a web over his eyes and said to be quiet.

The child's laughter buzzed around in Peters brain. It sounded unnatural; like a buzzard to its prey.

(Peter killed a man. Peter let a woman die. Peter ran from home.

Despite everything, no one seemed to be looking for him. Philadelphia was a sort of dull city, and no one wondered over his presence. Aunt May didn't even... when he really got to thinking about it—)

"I'm not asking for directions. Look at this dump."

"I wasn't the one who thought this 'dump' was a shortcut... Look. There's some kid over there. Just ask him."

Maybe... an hour had passed of straight up wandering (Peter had taken to it like a child to affection, finding mostly a sort of dissociation in the aimless, melancholy of Philadelphia... when he looked up, the area was less and less familiar). Peter looked up to see a sort of red car humming down the road, looking almost out of place in the sense that Peter had forgotten he wasn't utterly alone.

"Hey!"

—where the roads stretched endless and the sky rained a dismal something, and Peter found himself something of a fugitive, something of a nothing—

"Kid!"

—Oh. The people in the red humming car were calling to... him? Probably. A quick assessment of the area pulled up him as the only person around. The area wasn't the crowded with business so much as it was with housing. Regardless... "Um..." Arguably, it could be that—

THEY FOUND YOU New York raged with a certain dubiety, THEY WERE LOOKING FOR YOU AND THEY FOUND YOU

—they were just lost, but maybe New York was right and maybe they were looking for him. ...Probably not. (A sort of complication between nothing and everything... regardless—)

"Hello?" He said anyway, skittish and proud for it, maybe. "Um... sorry?"

WHY ARE YOU APOLOGIZING, LITTLE SPIDER? To which Peter didn't reply, because everyone already knew the answer.

The red car pulled to a stop or something on the road, so Peter could see in through the open window. There were two people in there—the front seats, a man and a woman for all Peter could tell. The looked so pleasant as to be daunting.

The man—at the wheel—leaned slightly forward, eyes wary and mocking as they assessed Peter's frame. After a moment he spoke calm and cruel, "We're trying to get out of this shit-hole." Then he cleared his throat, "Er... you have any idea how to get out of this crummy town?"

Peter shuffled back a step, feeling mostly out of place. He hardly even knew where he was—he wished they had just wandered lost forever like him.

Seeming to notice his distress, the woman piped up sweetly, "Oh, be polite, honey. He's just a kid." Before turning back to Peter and calling, "We're on a road trip to Baltimore, but this idiot decided we didn't need a map. Or GPS."

There was a moment of utter and complete silence where New York seemed to smile at the impulsivity of it all. LOOK AT THAT, it hummed, ALL THE WORLD'S YOUR ENEMY

"What?" Because sometimes even Peter didn't understand the things his spider said. It spun a dainty something web from Peter's shoulder over to the open window and crawled a crooked string across the man's terrible face.

IRON MAN MUST HAVE FIGURED YOU OUT BY NOW it said BUT LOOK AT THESE FOOLS. THEY HAVEN'T EVEN GOT A CLUE FOR THEMSELVES, LET ALONE YOU, PETER PARKER

It felt sort of oppressive, the nature of Peter's thought and the way a spider could shift the world into maybe everything symbolic. It didn't really matter. New York was just mercurial over the strangest of things.

"Well?" Apple red car, sharp and purposeful, "You gonna help or not, brat?"

OF COURSE, New York supplied YOU'D BE FOOLISH TO IGNORE AN OPPROTUNITY... BUT—

"Of course." Peter supplied. "I can help, just... you're on a road trip, right?" That seemed spontaneous. "Could I hitch a ride?"

—WATCH OUT, PLEASE. YOU'RE SO STUPIDLY TRUSTING

"Wha-?  _Hitch a ride?"_ The man groaned.

But the woman seemed contented with Peter's request, laughing slightly with a look only partly perturbed. "Sure! Hop on in!"

The man's face grew red and he started shouting or something at the woman. Peter watched them argue for a moment, but the decision was already made. (He thought about the man's hate and the woman's impulsive trust and wondered—)

New York seemed to agree. HOW DREARY. THAT'S WHAT YOU GET, LETTING THE YOUTH MAKE DECISIONS

And—youthful, impulsive, dreary—Peter Parker hadn't the faintest idea how to leave town. He didn't even know what town this was. Everything seemed sort of foggy in the way that a dream might. But looking at the people—the  _children—_ in that bright red car, Peter fell content.

Something about the truth was so utterly childish.

Peter heard faint the sound of human suffering from a building just back aways and he heard the morbid cry of helpless people hurt. Then he got into the car—there was solace in its unforgiving shut.

He introduced himself as Peter. “South,” he said, “as far as you’ll take me.” and didn’t bother with politeness.

(No one wondered over the loss of his sudden presence. It was all sort of belittling.)

(Nothing in all the world can control the morbid, lonesome power of impulsive youth. New York just made to impress upon it. Upon realizing this, Peter’s youth began to chip away.)

And in his mind, New York became a spider. Each leg a symbol for all the bustle of human society—family, love, friendship, but also money, work, reputation, hate… and dreadful, eternal, and robust obligation. Faced with the reality of human obligation (where a youthful impulse to help others should give your life to a city and to a people), Peter would always prefer the dismal presence of nothing at all. Belatedly, Peter wondered the city he had left behind, but thought it awfully distant and inconsequential.

Philadelphia faded into the background, and all the world was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: the poem (?) in there i found on an actual building while doing """"research"""" for this fic ? i tried to figure out who the author/creater/singer(??? is this a song idk) was ? but nothing was coming up . credits to whoever wrote this ? let me know if you know it please ? so i can credit them properly  
> so... thanks to 12th and Cambria Playground for having a good and weirdly relevant poem (?) on the side of your building
> 
>  
> 
> ugh... updated. enjoy. i know the writing is trash and nothing really ever happens in this garbage fic.  
> go figure


	7. Whole Wide World III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is an enigma, Tony thinks wrongfully. Sometimes he thinks the answer is as plain as day, and Peter isn’t really gone at all. He thinks maybe Peter’s got it all figured out. He thinks maybe the kid’s too young to be doing this on his own. That maybe things have been blown a bit out of proportion. 
> 
> or, Peter loses his footing, then he finds it.

When faced with how far he had come and the reality—perhaps—of why, Peter was bewildered. What sort of ambition, he wondered, what sort of rock—?

He didn’t know the people driving the car.

YOU SURE MOVE FAST, New York chuckled mockingly, WHEN YOU GET TO THINKING ABOUT IT, LITTLE SPIDER

(There was an undercurrent of something cautious there perhaps. Maybe it was terror.)

The evidence didn’t quite add up. He was missing something. Something... the size of two whole days of deleted footage. Quite so.

Or maybe not. Tony leaned back into his seat with a heavy sigh and a half-assed glance towards the clock. Honestly, he didn’t have a sense for what had the kid so... startled. Scared? He wasn’t even sure of that much, and now he was tasked with finding Peter and calming him down? It was all a bit much.

Which—to and unsuspecting audience—might be interpreted as a general obligation and a cautious monitoring of the situation. To the more discerning few, one might discover the rather manic fear coursing its way through Tony at the developing situation.

Where was the kid? More importantly: Why?

He’d fist investigated the idea that Peter was being blackmailed. Or something. That maybe he’d been afraid they’d find out and risk revealing... something. There had to be a third party in this somewhere. But for all intents and purposes, that just didn’t quite add up. Peter knew he could turn to Tony (right?). And he knew for sure that no one knew Spider-Man's real identity. Tony’d done enough burying to cover that up, at least. God. He’d do anything for that kid. If he could only find him.

He didn’t understand today’s youth, maybe. (The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.)

He didn’t understand people in general.

“Let’s go over this again,” Tony huffed loudly, leaning towards a panel of screens once more.

FRIDAY’s mechanical tone gentled the information in response. “All recordings in the suit have been deleted both twelve days ago and four days ago. It is most likely that whatever event sparked this change in his behavior began at the earliest date and was exacerbated on the latter. Scans of news reports and CCTV show little in reference as to what might have occurred.”

“So nothing.”

“Correct, Boss.”

Tony slammed his hand down on the table, reluctant to admit his anger yet entirely unable to stop it. It was... frustrating the lack of answer—a thousand questions seemingly without reason and one terribly missing child. “Keep looking,” he grunted, running a hand over his exhausted face as though that might clear up the issue. It didn’t.

“Yes, Boss.”

If the kid didn’t have a secret identity to uphold, Tony would have just let the police handle this. (He didn’t trust anyone with Peter. It was his job to protect the kid—how did he fuck this one up so bad? He’s always ruining everything—)

This wasn’t the time for self-debasement. Whatever was going on was bigger than him. Probably.

Maybe he should call in help. He thought about it, at least, but thinking about even involving someone else in the realm of... superhero-ing, let’s say, ran the risk of exposing Peter’s identity. (The thought of something so complex and ugly drew up a strange feeling of spidery rage. He pushed it back down.)

He wondered how May was doing and figured worse than himself. It was rather selfish.

They pulled over for gas maybe one hour later, running into the stop to grab snacks and drinks. The woman offered to buy Peter something, but he just shrugged. Something else had grabbed his attention.

There’s a red payphone lit up under a street light, even though it’s the middle of the day. The sight of it makes his chest ache. Peter’s not really thinking when he walks towards it and plugs Aunt May’s number in mechanically. It rings for a minute.

There’s a voice from the other side of the line.

May was, admittedly, doing worse than Tony. Peter was actual flesh and blood. Somehow that made a difference. (It didn’t, not at all.) She’d taken work off. She never took work off. Living in Queens was hard work for a single income family. Living anywhere was hard for a single income family. (Having Stark around seemed like a cheat. She tried to ignore it.)

And Peter was gone. She was alone.

Maybe she was angry. She was. Angry at Peter for leaving. It was a selfish concept, but all she felt was this strange rage. She knew on some level something must have happened (he looked so afraid), but she didn’t feel like that justified running away.

She just wanted Peter to come home. What she was feeling was love.

(She kept going back to the notebook. Sobbing over it with ugly, choked gasps, thinking: what are you looking for? Then more sedately: what is any of us looking for?)

Her phone was ringing. She didn't want to pick up, but if Tony was calling with information, she wanted to know then. She wants Peter now. May picked it up, “Yes?” like she’s demanding an answer to a question no one asked.

The other end is silent for a moment. She thinks she hears breathing.

“Hello? Is this about Peter?” She tried again.

The person on the other end of the line sucks in a breath, and May understands.

“Peter?”

He couldn’t say anything. Shouldn’t have called in the first place. New York was on the phone.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? It shouted GET OUT, GET OUT!

“...Peter, is that you? Sweetie, please.”

THEY CAN TRACK YOU DOWN. THEY’RE GOING TO KILL YOU. GET OUT GET OUT

“Sweetie, please. Come home. Please. We can... we can fix this. Whatever this is.”

New York was all but screaming. It sounded unholy and afraid. GET OUT GET OUT!

Peter sucked in a breath. “Aunt May. I’m sorry.”

NO YOU’RE NOT! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

He heard a sob from the other line. “Peter. Peter. It’s okay. I forgive you—just come home—”

Then Peter wanted to cry, too. He didn’t want to be forgiven.

YOU DON’T CARE AT ALL! New York accused. YOU’RE LEADING THEM STRAIGHT HERE! DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?

This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wasn’t sure what he had wanted. (This wasn’t it, after all. He wanted to be accused. He wanted this to be...  _bigger._ )

The gas station door snapped open and closed with a  _ding_ , and Peter jerked alert. He slammed the phone down just before he heard his driver call, “Kid? Where in the hell—? We’re heading back out.”

“Here!” He shouted back, turning away from the payphone. “I’m here!”

They were waiting for him by the car, so he did a small jump into the backseat. He was eager to move on, feeling antsy after the call. Feeling evil, or something. (Feeling small.)

“Where’d all that energy come from?” The girl laughed slightly, filing into the car herself.

The man just sighed. “I don’t know. Let’s not get too excited. We still have an hour to go.”

Peter shook his head (they weren’t even looking). “An hour isn’t long enough.”

(He got them moving pretty quickly after that, the humming car pulling out of the station with a practiced ease. Peter wished it would move a little faster. When they were turning a corner, Peter caught a last glimpse of the payphone. It’s apple red cord was calling in his final judgement.)

New York made a choking sound but didn’t say a thing of worth.

Tony got the call himself just a minute after.

May was in hysterics, sobbing over the phone that Peter had called. When she collected herself, May was all business. “Can you track him? I have the number still.”

“Yes.” There was real confidence in his voice now. Some certainty was good when dealing with a vanished Peter. At least the kid was safe. For now. He typed away on the keyboard for maybe a minute when FRIDAY piped up helpfully that they had found footage of Peter at a gas station, making the call. He pulled it up immediately.

Tony’s brow scrunched up as he looked over the footage. “It looks like he’s travelling with some people.”

“With people? Oh my god...” May sounded grossly hushed, “You don’t think... you don’t think he’s been kidnapped? Or.. Or blackmailed? Oh my god...”   
He wants to say Yes, which is maybe an odd inclination, because at the very least there is direction in this. Motivation. Cause. If Peter had been kidnapped this whole issue would be easier to understand. Motives would be clear. There would be tangible leads to follow. He’s done that before. It would be easy...It really isn’t, though, and Tony didn’t have the faintest idea about the kid. (Maybe he didn’t know Peter at all, and the idea stung.) “I’ll look into it.” Is what he actually said, “Just give me time. I’ll get him back to you, May. Promise.”

“...Thank you.” And she says it like she doesn’t believe it. Tony doesn’t either.

(YOU'LL NEVER FIND—)

They talked for a while, then Tony hung up. He had work to do, and sleep to ignore. And Peter to find.

“FRIDAY? Track that car down for me. And pull up that CCTV footage from twelve days ago. I want to see if something stands out now.”

“On it, Boss.”

(Peter is an enigma, Tony thinks wrongfully. Sometimes he thinks the answer is as plain as day, and Peter isn’t really gone at all. He thinks maybe Peter’s got it all figured out. He thinks maybe the kid’s too young to be doing this on his own. That maybe things have been blown a bit out of proportion.

Then he just thinks about his kid. The absence is a sorrow Tony is only distantly familiar with.)

This kid would be the death of him.

(What he was feeling was love, bitter, dark, and impolite.)

“I made a mistake calling May.” Peter says later. “Please. What should I do?”

New York did not respond to his question, so Peter left his nameless ambition behind. He tried to fill the void with confidence but found only the impression of his city on his spidery little soul. It was almost funny. Peter had always thought it had been the other way around. Then he found his ambition was in the spider’s eyes—apple, pure, and wide.

(In that moment, Peter saw the spider a rock and thought it looked awfully changeable.)

“What was that, kid?” The man calls, sounding distracted and distant from the driver’s seat.

Peter’s eyes go wide, his spine stiffens. It feels like something is changing. “Nothing!”

(And he thought—New York is all the world, and all the world’s a web—but the words tasted odd and immature on his tongue.)

IT’S GOT YOU STUCK, New York commented, dry and cracked and sad, BIG SPIDER’S GONNA EAT YOU WHOLE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late update ughhh
> 
> some stuff :  
> .im starting school next week. updates might be farther apart? i dont think so, but its something to look out for  
> .writing this really wears me out ugh  
> .just finished WWW5 --this part is a lot longer than i anticipated  
> .im sort of projecting on peter? also i throw away the plot in this chapter. i didn't plan for this.  
> .the tone of the story is going to change again in the next (?) chapter i think. bc im projecting. or something. point is: i got kind of bored with writing paranoid peter. we move on.  
> .i put a lot of work into word choice and tone for the sake of a larger theme/picture/story... i know its written so poorly none of you can understand it, but just a heads up for when this doesn't read like a traditional character based fic l o l
> 
> : (


	8. Whole Wide World IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The world is really big. I could travel forever and no one would stop me to ask about New York. Because none of that matters to anyone but me.” 
> 
> aka, Peter was distraught over what he did. No one else seems to care.

Tony was skimming through the footage for a third time in as many minutes. He wanted to fly straight to the kid, don’t get him wrong, but another more rational part of his brain said to do research before charging into the fray. It was a very persistent urge. Tony didn't want to wait around at all. His kid needed him. (His kid needed something.)

Anyway. With FRIDAY's insistence that they were keeping track of the vehicle Peter was in (Philadelphia? Really? The kid got farther than Tony would have thought), he set about to seeing what he could with a fresh perspective.

But... there really wasn’t anything on the footage. Tony wasn’t sure how Peter had done it. Or... how someone had done it. Honestly, he wasn’t really sure of much. 

“Oh.” Tony said. “Maybe I’ll just go have a look myself. Then I’ll fly down to Phili and drag Peter back.”

So he went to the alley Spider-Man was seen walking out of however many days ago. Who knew what he’d find there, anyway. Probably nothing.

 

As it turns out, Philadelphia is actually pretty close to Baltimore. Peter’s a little upset about that, actually. He wanted to drive forever.

YOU’RE TOO YOUNG TO DRIVE. New York chimed in painfully. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET.

“Ha—what?” Peter snorted, not really saying anything.

Anyway. There wasn’t actually that much driving to be had. Not much actual escaping to be had. But Peter road dutifully in the backseat anyway, hoping maybe if he drove long enough all his problems would disappear. (His problem was that he’d run away, so running farther didn’t really help much at all.)

“You like this song, kid?” the man called from the driver’s seat, munching idly on chips while he drove.

There was music playing in the car. Peter didn’t know the words, but the tune was something of a comfort. He pulled a fistful of chips toward himself. “Sure. I mean, I’ve never heard it before? But it’s okay.”

“Good.” he said, then, “So, uh... you want us to drop you off anywhere soon? We’re getting pretty close now.”

The woman seemed to perk up at that. “Oh, yeah. Where are you headed, again?”

“Just... south.” Peter crunched down on a chip thoughtfully. Should he give any more information than that? It wasn’t like he necessarily had any to give. “Somewhere quiet.”

“Quiet?” She hummed, “You spend a lot of time in a big city, then? I don’t think Baltimore is very small. Sorry.”

Peter shrugged. “New York, actually. New York is pretty noisy.”

A chip fell out of the man’s hand. He let it drop. “Really? You’re pretty far from home then.”

“Maybe. I have to go farther.”

“Well,” the woman motioned vaguely, “you probably won’t like Baltimore, then. Sorry we can’t take you any farther.”

“It’s fine.” Peter looked away and out the window. The road sort of stretched on forever. The car was red, and it felt ever too small. “How much longer?”

“Not long. Maybe twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. Okay.

YOU SEEM ON EDGE. Peter turned from the window and back at chip bag. New York crawled out of it pristine and dark. THE CAR IS TOO SMALL. It idly observes.

That much is true. He can’t stand being cooped up, but the music is nice. Peter wanted to reach for another chip (once he’s out of the car, he’s out of food. Again.) but New York was standing in the way.

THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Peter quirked an eyebrow, but his heart sunk. (Oh, right, he thinks. He’s blown the world out of proportion again. Got to thinking it’s something cosmic.) “They don’t. They didn’t even know I was coming from New York.” And the words don’t really sound all that weak to Peter’s ears.

AT THE VERY LEAST, the spider crawls out of the bag and stands, poised, at the mouth, THEY’VE GOT YOU TRAPPED.

And that’s—true. Peter wants to drive away really, really far, but he’ll end up trapped in a tiny metal box for hours on end. It doesn’t help that—

YOU CALLED MAY. YOU KNOW STARK CAN FIND YOU

—that once Tony finds him, they’ll know for sure if they don’t already. What he did. He hadn’t checked the news since he ran. Peter wonders if anyone knows yet. If not—

“Kid? You gonna take the last chip, or what?” He sounded angry. The woman was holding the bag out to Peter with eyes confused or concerned or distrustful.

Peter hadn’t noticed. He looks into the mouth of the bag, looks into the candy red eyes of New York’s tense, spidery frame, and doesn’t take the food. “No thanks.”

“Your loss,” said the man, but neither he nor the woman ate the last chip. They all let the bag sit there and stink of potatoes.

There’s a just bit painful silence that follows. Peter looked down at his hands. It had been a while since he’d done that for the sake of maybe fear or disgust. (Peter’s hands are visibly and sharply clean.)

(If not—)

New York was still in the bag. Peter thought it might have been on the chip. It stared his way and offered some advice. DON’T LOOK AT YOUR HANDS. YOU LOOK GUILTY OF SOMETHING. THEY’LL FIGURE YOU OUT AND TURN YOU IN TO STARK

“They won’t do that.” Peter said, sounding sure.

THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU. THEY WOULD BETRAY YOU

He gave this one a bit of thought. New York was terribly changeable these days. “No. You’re right. They don’t care at all.”

EXACTLY

“But why would they turn me in if they didn’t care about it?” Peter asked, partly genuine and partly uncaring himself. Partly afraid, but of a different sort. Like he was reasoning out the world and didn’t quite like what he was getting at.

There was a stutter in the spider’s step. New York reassessed him. BECAUSE, it growled low and strong, PEOPLE ARE TERRIBLE. THEY WANT TO HURT YOU. THEY WANT TO KILL YOU. There was a pause where Peter just stared at the spider with a conflicted expression. THEY WANT TO PUNISH YOU, it said.

“Maybe. I guess I’ve just had more time to think about it now.” He was sounding peaceable. “That it’s just like? It felt so big when I was in New York.”

YOU KILLED A MAN. All the city was sharp edges and eight violent legs. YOU KILLED A MAN. YOU’RE STILL A MONSTER.

“Definitely. But…not to these people, I don’t think?”

(Peter had got to reasoning out the deaths he had caused. It wasn’t all that complex to follow when he got down to it. In the city, each life had felt so monumental. Like there was an importance to everyone. But driving for miles in a stranger’s car next to two people without faces or names made Peter think just how large the world actually was.

No one even knew about the man Peter had killed yet. He wanted to be shameful, but he was mostly just sad. How insignificant did someone have to be that they could be dead for two weeks and no one would wonder? Why was no one chasing him down? Was it all that small?)

OH

“They might kill me.” Peter hummed, looking away briefly, then back. “They might not care. Either way—” (I deserve it) “—it doesn’t matter. Life is…”

INSIGNIFICANT, New York said. I SEE.

“The world is really big. I could travel forever and no one would stop me to ask about New York. Because none of that matters to anyone but me.”

From the front seat, the woman laughed. “That’s why I love road trips. I feel like I could just start driving and never go home.”

“It’s refreshing.” The man affirmed.

Peter reached in the bag until New York was below his palm and took the chip. Nothing happened. “Definitely refreshing.” The chip tasted more bitter than salty, and Peter didn’t stop to wonder why.

There was a crack in New York’s casual tone. IT’S A DARK WORLD, LITTLE SPIDER… AREN’T YOU BEING A BIT TOO BOLD?

“Yes.” He said, swirling the bitter taste around his mouth until it covered him whole.

There was a pause, then, HAVEN’T YOU TRIED SPINNING YOUR OWN WEB, YET?

(Peter hummed along to the car’s song because he didn’t know the words to sing it.)

(Peter doesn’t answer New York’s question, and he is a rock.

Now that he’s halfway to somewhere, he can’t help but wonder how small a city is in the grand scheme of things. He can’t help but wonder that Aunt May hasn’t reported him missing.)

He doesn’t remember how many days it’s been. He’s stopped keeping count.

(New York hasn’t, but it doesn’t say a word.)

“Okay, kid. We’re here. Get out.”

“Hey! Be nice.” The woman admonished him, but didn’t correct the sentiment.

Peter looked up from his hands where they were toying with the hem of his shirt to find the car stopped. He glanced around for a moment, maybe lost or something else.

“Our hotel is coming up,” the woman smiled, “and we’d like to get settled in.”

“So this is where you get out. Thanks for not pitching in on the gas money.” Peter’s driver snarked.

From the backseat, Peter wanted to be grateful to those two. “Sorry.” But their kindness had a familiar sting to it that Peter wasn’t entirely fond of.

YOU OWE THEM, New York reasoned. It had crawled up Peters arm while the other two were speaking. And New York was right.

Peter got out of the car.

YOU OWE THEM, it said again, seeming strong now, IT'S A SORT OF HOSTAGE SITUATION

"Yes, yes." Peter nodded along. He couldn't argue with that. Conversation was very hostile.

ESPECIALLY, New York grinned, WHEN YOU'VE KILLED BEFORE

At his blank expression, the woman chuckled. "Here," she handed him maybe twenty dollars, "you didn't seem to have much on you. Buy some lunch with this, okay?

"Oh," Peter took it, indebted.

"What? No. I just told him off for not paying for gas, and now you pay for his lunch?"

"He's a growing boy, hush up."

Peter smiled harshly at the woman's cruelty. "Thank you, miss."

WATCH OUT, OR YOU'LL END UP TRAPPED HERE AND OWING THEM FOREVER

And the woman probably knew it, too. There wasn't any other reason to give him money or to give him a ride. Peter suddenly had the dark feeling that maybe they did know what he'd done in that alleyway. He was all caught up in trying to decipher their motivation, Peter didn't notice the man groan loudly.

"Okay. Whatever. Bye, kid."

"Oh, uh..." Peter stuttered, "B-bye, um... guys."

(Now that he thought about it, Peter didn’t even know their names. Maybe it just wasn’t that important.

NO. YOU JUST DON’T CARE ANYMORE. And oddly enough, New York sounded resigned.)

As they were pulling away, Peter heard through an open window a final exchange.

“He seemed a bit young to be traveling alone.”

“Maybe,” the car turned a corner, crimson blood and small, “but it’s really none of our business, after all.”

A bell-like laugh. “That’s right. Kids are awfully strange these days. He seems to have things figured out just fine.”

The wind wasn’t very strong in Baltimore. Peter didn’t think they remembered his name.

New York was a bitter companion. YOU REALLY ARE A MESS, AFTER ALL. KEEP GOING LIKE THIS AND YOU'RE GOING TO WIND UP DEAD

Peter shook but there wasn't any chilled wind to speak of (he glanced around in something like shame, or maybe it wasn't anything at all). "I think I'll get lunch, then." He was standing next to a self-declared "sandwich shop", after all. Like it didn't matter at all that a tiny spider should damn him like that.

New York moaned, WHAT A HELPLESS, TINY THING YOU ARE, LITTLE SPIDER

Pushing open the door with a harsh  _ding_  of someone else's bell, Peter hummed idly. "Why is that?"

LITTLE SPIDER, New York said, then didn't say anything more.

How damning. Peter said as much, and felt that it was true. He ordered a sandwich with the mute dissatisfaction one might have at speaking to another human being after having just days before killed someone of the same kind. (The interaction was bland and uninteresting in a way that burned deep and dark.)

Peter blamed his impulsivity towards food on a spidery metabolism. It was unnecessary and trite.

He took a seat by the window and took an uninterested bite out of the sub. There weren't many people here, it seemed. "It's just like Delmar's."

WATCH OUT, New York warned from his shoulder.

Peter took another bite of the sub and got a mouthful of pickles. The bell on the door chimed, and Peter glanced up. It was a family of three—Peter looked back down, then out the window to his right. Across the street was one of those sliding news things where headlines would move across the building on a screen.

—RECENT UPTICK IN LOCAL CRIME, the building shouted, POLICE INVESTIGATING POSSIBLE CRIME SYNDICATE AS CAUSE—

And took another bite from his sandwich. (It wasn't about him, it wasn't about him, after all... he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or sad about that.)

From his shoulder, there was an exasperated, almost desperate, RELIEVED, YOU IDIOT

"I guess..." he snacked, then, "I've never really thought about crime outside of New York." The spider was silent and watching. Peter thought that meant to continue. "It always seemed like Spider-Man was making a difference. Saving lives, stopping crime... But just look at that. These people don't have anyone to swing in and... save the day."

NEW YORK WAS COUNTING ON YOU, the city surmised warily.

“That city isn’t counting on anyone.” Peter thought, “That city can take care of itself.”

YOU ABANDONED YOUR CITY, it growled lowly, threateningly.

"I left," he countered, "when things got too complicated."

YOU RAN AWAY FROM YOUR RESPONSIBILITY

(With great power—)

"No, I—"

WITH GREAT POWER, PETER

Peter felt sick to his stomach. He put the sandwich down. "How could anyone make just one person responsible for all that? All of New York?"

New York crawled onto Peter's hand, and buzzed with a mean sort of power. YOU VOLUNTEERED, LITTLE SPIDER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall dont comment anymore haha
> 
> next update??? idk i havent written WWW VI yet like i usually would have.  
> im not busy , though. completely inexcusable haha


	9. Whole Wide World V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GUILTY, New York despaired. When Peter only shook his head, it quieted. 
> 
> or, Peter finds some meaning. It's every bit as dull as he expected.

_With great power comes great responsibility._  That was what his Uncle Ben had said before Peter effectively killed him. But in a world as wide as this, Peter's power wasn't really that great, after all. Peter was actually quite small. New York was even smaller. So small. So inconsequential. 

He didn't have any responsibility for this. Just because he  _could_ fight didn't mean it was right for a veritable child to stand in front of a gun for someone else. Just because it was New York... 

Just because it was the world... 

New York stiffened. WATCH OUT, LITTLE SPIDER 

"Oh," Peter replied, wrapping up the remains of his sandwich for later, "We'll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight." 

New York didn't seem contented, but it was silent enough. Maybe spurred into quiet by Peter’s non-answer. Regardless. 

He got up from the table and started to walk out of the store, intent on something nameless or uncertain. Peter’s hand was on the door when he saw it. The building across the street. 

NEW YORK’S LOCAL VIGILANTE MISSING? WHERE IS SPIDER-MAN? It screamed numb and plain. 

“Where is Spider-Man...” Peter hummed under his breath. (He thought... no. There was a pit in Peter’s stomach. The dread felt distant and strange. It almost seemed unnecessary.) 

But he’d been standing too near another table. The occupants nearby him perked up at Peter’s half-muttered thoughts. “I know, right? I guess he disappeared, or something?” 

“Good riddance, if you ask me.” Said another character. “World’s got enough wannabe superheroes.” 

(Where is Spider-Man, Peter Parker?) 

From the still, cold air, New York watched Peter’s expression mutely. It was a look cautious and calculating. 

“Yeah,” Peter said as he left the store. The remains of the sandwich he’d bought rather without thought or care were cement in his hands. “Who needs him.” 

YOU DON’T MEAN THAT, New York skittered around Peter’s frame shakily. 

“I do.” 

YOU’RE CONFUSED. CHILDREN SUCH AS YOURSELF ARE ALWAYS MAKING STUPID DECISIONS 

Peter frowned, glancing outward at the city. “What’s the difference?” 

YOUTH— 

“We’re already past that.” Even if it was a bit abstract. (It doesn’t have to make sense to be true, Peter thought again. The idea stung a bit.) “I’m onto something bigger now.” 

...WHAT’S THAT, LITTLE SPIDER? 

He thought the Baltimore looked small. “Nothing.” 

(New York didn’t get it. Not entirely.) 

 

Baltimore is actually a pretty big city. Compared to other cities, that is. Big and wide and whole. When Peter had first left New York, he’d been all a panic with the terror of newness and of death. The terror of his own actions. But as Peter was rather aimlessly wandering a town not his own, he came to realize a slightly different, slightly less panic-worthy terror. Or rather, that Peter had yet to find any consequences. (It wasn’t very realistic.) 

Well... 

He wasn’t quite sure where he was going to sleep. In the haze of his rather disproportionate reaction to guilt, Peter had most entirely disregarded some more basic things. In another sense, nothing had really changed. 

“I can’t afford a hotel. Motel.” Peter groaned idly. The sun was swooping rather low in the sky. 

New York gave him a brief respite from conversation, so Peter took the moment to scan about the area he had wandered to. What was he going to do with a fraction of twenty dollars? He let the thought hang in the air. New York didn’t reply. The obvious answer was too... risky for the spider. 

Either way. It was getting late. Peter’d have to sleep eventually. 

“I wonder what those two are up to.” He asked an open alleyway. 

...THOSE KIDS THAT DROVE YOU HERE? TURNING YOU IN. DAMNING YOU TO THIS 

“No. I guess I could mean anybody.” Peter schooled his expression. 

New York seemed to perk up. MAY AND STARK. OF COURSE 

“...Of course.” The city was cold at night and its air smelled like earth. He thought it might rain soon. 

HUNTING YOU DOWN, NO DOUBT. The city pestered in a slightly manic tone. THEY’LL KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE BY NOW. WITH HOW STUPID YOU’VE BEEN LATELY 

Peter couldn’t entirely argue with that. Not in so many words that could be conveyed. The alleyway was empty when he turned away from the spider-ish frame on his shoulder. 

GUILTY, New York despaired. When Peter only shook his head, it quieted. 

“Where is Spider-Man?” he asked after a moment, quiet and still. He didn’t know the answer. Couldn’t find the words for it. 

HERE, New York moaned sadly, HERE, LITTLE SPIDER 

There was a sort of poetry to everything. Peter pushed himself up against a dumpster and closed his eyes. He was sitting in a puddle. It started to drizzle. (And the streets were far more comfortable than any bed he had ever slept in before.) “No.” Sleep was exhaustion where it nibbled at his soul. “No. Spider-Man is gone.” 

...THEN WHO ARE YOU? 

“No one. Nothing.” 

(He looked around, and all the world was strangers. Amidst the fray of the whole wide world, he was infinitesimal. Take away your family and friends who name you and love you, and you aren’t anything at all.) 

PETER PARKER, the city cried. 

 

_“Peter,” Aunt May cried, “Sweetie. You’re blowing things out of proportion again.”_  

_Mr. Stark stared Peter’s way, but didn’t ever meet his eyes. “What are you even going on about, these days? You want to justify what you did, but now you just look crazy.”_  

_“Out of sorts.” May corrected wetly._  

_There was a bigger spider somewhere just past a field of glass. It felt sort of foolish to go towards it. It felt more foolish to stay still._  

_The Big Spider watched Peter with eight eyes dull. STARK HAS KILLED BEFORE, TOO. It said plainly._  

_Peter could have walked over the glass if he really wanted to._  

 

"Do you have it?” 

Fabric, shuffling. “As much as I could get.” 

The pitter-patter of raindrops. “I didn’t hire you to do half of one job.” 

Lightning crackled across the sky—thunder noisily booming its companionship. “You also didn’t hire me to get arrested. If I’d stayed any longer...” 

A scoff sounding like chilled wind. “How much  _did_  you get, then?” 

“Passcodes to about a third of the floors. Locations for some of the higher end goods. Stark Tower won’t know what hit it. Go crazy.” 

Thunder boomed directly overhead—loud and sudden to Peter’s sensitive ears. He jumped fully awake, bumping noisily into the dumpster behind him. 

At once, the others in the alley stilled, their conversation dying sharply. 

“Shit. Someone’s here.” 

The other was quick to hush the situation. “Take the flash drive and go,” they said, “I’ll take care of it.” 

There was the sound of footsteps, quick, on water where the alleyway had soaked through and puddled. Peter read it as loyalty, or something else entirely. The other’s steps grew nearer as they went to investigate, and Peter only felt the numbness of exhaustion and discomfort. 

“Alright,” the voice sounded, menacing, “Get out here. Show yourself.” 

Peter, tired and wet, did not. He shuffled further against the alley wall. From under the dumpster, New York poked a spindly leg out. 

THEY’RE GOING TO KILL YOU, it said, FOR LISTENING IN. THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING SO PREDICTABLE 

A second passed, the voice was closer and searching. 

FOR BEING SO STUPID 

The steps stopped directly behind the dumpster. Peter heard the sharp sound of a knife being flicked open. 

Peter shot up just before the blade could connect from where the stranger had snaked around to face him. The man’s eyes widened slightly at what Peter assumed to be his disheveled appearance (or scorn, or hate, or uncaring). He paused, knife still pointed outward. 

FOR BEING SO UTTERLY STUPID, LITTLE SPIDER 

“How much did you hear?” (He couldn’t hurt a kid, especially one looking so sad as this one did.) 

“Well,” Peter stared down at the knife, but his voice only shook in regards to the cold (no, no, he’s thinking about it again. The murder in that other alleyway. I thought that was behind us?), “Some of it.” He couldn’t lie, but then mutely added, “None of it.” 

STUPID, New York admonished— 

The man sighed a heavy something and put the knife away. He was too weakhearted, and too small-scale to do anything about a child. “Get out of here, kid.” And started to walk away. 

But Peter was a dreadfully awful soul. “You’ll never get into Stark Tower with just passcodes. His security is too tight. And all the good stuff is on the higher floors, anyway.” 

STUPID, AND SO TERRIBLY SMALL... YOU’RE ALWAYS DOING USELESS THINGS, LITTLE SPIDER. USELESS THINGS AND YOU’RE GOING TO GET US KILLED. IF YOU’D JUST THINK— 

Lightning struck the ground, and the man stopped in his tracks. He turned to Peter, and assessed the reality of obligation. 

 

IT’S A DARK WORLD, LITTLE SPIDER, PLEASE WATCH OUT, New York sobbed. 

Peter didn’t respond in so many words. When the man came back and offered Peter shelter in return for helping him with the job—giving him the information Peter seemed to have rather in bounds, Peter found that he didn’t so much care. There was a knife in the stranger’s pocket—silent, sharp, and apple red. It got Peter to wondering what was holding him back from anything at all. 

 

“Ah. There’s nothing here. I knew it.” Tony sighed. 

The alleyway was utterly empty. Or trashy, maybe. But it was an alleyway in New York City, and Tony hadn’t expected it to hold up any... let’s say pristine evidence. Of what, he didn’t know. Maybe some perp said something to Peter. Who knows. 

What the fuck was this kid up to? 

“Boss?” FRIDAY buzzed from his phone, or maybe his earpiece. The origin didn’t matter. 

“What’s up, FRI? Where’s the kid got to now?” 

There was a silence. A pause that seemed almost... sheepish? 

“FRI? Fill me in, buddy.” Honestly. AIs these days. 

“Sir, it appears Peter has vanished. I can’t seem to locate him using CCTV footage. However, the last information I have on Peter’s whereabouts put him in a Baltimore alley. He appears to be in cahoots with a suspected leader of a local crime syndicate. Would you like me to research this further?” 

Honestly. What the fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. I just don't have anymore written. I probably won't write anymore.  
> Listen. Listen. It just isn't good. yall dont like it, i dont like it.  
> only posting this chapter bc i had it lying around, all short and bad and obscure sounding  
> we all knew i couldnt stick with something like this anyway haha
> 
> anyway. enough with the excuses from me. peace.  
> will update if i find meaning in this again


	10. Whole Wide World VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter shrugged. “It’s a Dark World out there, New York.”

Tony’s done playing detective. Something’s going on, and he’s going straight to the source. It’s best to find Peter and work from there.

First he has to find the kid. Again. But all the while he’s got to thinking, YOU’LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR, and it’s actually sort of grating on him. There isn’t much he can do about that.

“Send me the details,” is what he says instead. It’s only a second of hesitation before he’s halfway to Baltimore on an ounce of hope and a dash of terror. It's a lack of understanding. This kid would be the death of him.

(You’ll never find what you’re looking for, so Peter took what he could get.)

The man told Peter his name was “Red”, and Peter was decently sure this was an alias. He didn’t ask after it. After all, Peter had been thinking about his own name an awful lot recently—”Peter” felt too pedestrian and “Spider-Man” was a bit... on the nose.

Red started him up and down, looking freshly cautious. “...You used to intern for Stark?”

“Well, yeah.” Peter shrugged, his mind’s eye on the knife he knew this stranger to carry. “More-or-less.”

“More-or—Okay.”

Red had dragged him off to an old apartment looking building and shuffled him indoors roughly. Peter wasn’t sure what the man’s real motivation was, but denoted it closer to obligation and left it at that. The apartment was spacious and clean. It put Peter on edge, but only distantly.

After setting Peter up in front of a desk and telling him to write down what he knew about Stark’s tech, Red had promptly left. Before shutting Peter in the room, he said, “I need to tell the crew about... this. Don’t touch anything.”

HE DOESN’T TRUST YOU

“He shouldn’t.” Peter replied. “I’m a stranger with good information, is all.” He was still only vaguely understanding why Red had not simply killed him (with a knife sharp and red).

New York paused, then crawled onto the desk—onto the paper that said  _“FRIDAY”_  and nothing more.

THIS IS DANGEROUS, it said, YOU DIDN’T USED TO BE LIKE THIS

Peter shrugged and resumed writing.

DO YOU EVEN...

_“—experimental tech kept in lab C._ _Passcode is—”_

...DO YOU EVEN MISS IT?

“— _I’m still in the system. FRI won’t alert the security if I—”_

DO YOU NOT MISS THE COMFORT OF NEW YORK?

“— _there aren’t any consequences—”_

THERE ARE ALWAYS CONSEQUENCES

“— _don’t insult me.”_

New York went silent. Peter’s eyes widened and he stared down blankly at the paper—at the words he had written. “ _Stark lives on the top-most floor. All of his most important files are kept on a computer on the floor just below that. FRIDAY will keep everyone out, but I know how to get in and—don’t insult me.”_

I CAN KEEP YOU SAFE. New York whispered.

Peter crossed the words out, but he could still read it. In a burst of something like hate, he scribbled an angry lead hole into the paper _._  Peter let out a heavy breath.

I CAN—

“Don’t insult me.” Peter interrupted the thought resignedly.

Hunching into himself, Peter continued writing to the  _scritch_ _-_ y silence of pencil scratch. He didn’t want for New York’s dreadful commentary. Peter was too far gone for that.

...CAN’T YOU EVEN TRY TO SAVE YOURSELF, LITTLE SPIDER?

“Come one,” Red beckoned, “I want you to meet the team.”

Peter squinted, but stood up nonetheless. About two hours had passed, during which Peter helped himself to a sandwich before idly wondering about the nature of things past. “Why?”

There was a slight pause, hesitant in its quiet distrust. “We looked over your notes, kid. They want to be sure they can trust you. Seeing your face will go a long way.”

“Oh, okay.” He started to stand up. Something caught his sleeve and stalled his movement.

DON’T

Red’s expression thinned when Peter’s step stuttered. The boy frowned more formally and looked back to the desktop where New York was eight-eyes wide and red. It had four spindly, little things clinging to his sleeve.

THEY’RE GOING TO KILL YOU, it said hurriedly.

“Don’t be stupid.”

PETER PARKER, the city warned, I’M DOING THIS FOR YOU

Shrugging off the spider’s grip, Peter turned away. He started following Red out the door.

LITTLE SPIDER, it corrected from the desk to an audience of something greater.

(What Peter was looking for was consequence. That voice he’d heard in what felt like a long-forgotten era of schoolwork and bullies had said something to him Peter would never forget. It was a message from the city.

YOU’LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR, it had warned.

When Peter thought about it now, the words meant something else entirely. There was reason in the chaos itself.)

Red was both light on introductions and heavy on caution. Peter’s theory about the alias, however, was proven correct when he was introduced to the team. That is—Red, Blue, and Green. Green raised an eyebrow at Peter’s childish figure, but didn’t seem otherwise to care.

“Jones already has the flash-drive. He and his team will probably hit Stark in two days. Their schedule is a little tight.” Red hummed thoughtfully.

Green shot Peter a look, frowning distrustfully. “What—you want to call him up and tell him we have more?”

There was a tense moment of silence where Peter quietly looked over the three criminals. He thought it was terribly predictable the uncaring they regarded him with. New York skittered out from his sleeve and onto his shoulder to watch the proceedings. For all the spidery legs of daunting something on his form, Peter couldn’t regret revealing himself to Red. There was something uniquely powerful about switching sides. Something uninspired and inconsequential.

Shaking her head, Blue grimaced. “What if... I was thinking we go in and get the goods ourselves.”

Red shot up. “You can’t be serious. Kid’s info might not even be accurate.”

“I was an intern.” Peter perked up dully.

“Think about it.” she gestured excitedly, ignoring Peter’s remark, seemingly. “You saw the kid’s notes. The system will only accept him, and I’m not about giving him away to Jones’ people. We’ll make a fortune and blame it on Jones.”

“You want to send the kid in there on his own  _while_  Jones is robbing the lower floors?” Red growled.

“Yes.” Blue asserted.

“It’s not... a bad idea. Listen,” Green said, “I know you don’t want the kid to get hurt, but this is—”

“No!” Red shouted, but his yell was equaled out by Peter’s sedated, “Okay.”

“ _Okay?!”_

LITTLE SPIDER...

“It’s okay. I’ll do it.” Peter hummed. “It’s only Stark. It's only New York.”

Looking affronted, Red moved closer to the boy. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

(A kid, he’s only a kid—)

And it’s a very dark world, indeed.

Behind him, Green and Blue had matching grins. The looks in their eyes sang their excitement at the prospect of future wealth.

“It’s too late to stop now,” Peter echoed the words of New York, morbid and profound. “I’ve got to commit to something.”

“Kid...” Red looked him over concernedly, or something else.

Blue frowned. “Red. You can’t seriously be willing to overlook this opportunity.”

“I—” he started “—no. Enough. Kid, give us a minute, would you?”

“Sure.” Peter nodded to the man. New York buzzed from his shoulder as it snaked back down his arm. Then he left the room. As the door shut, this is what he heard: “You really don’t think it’s odd he ran away from an internship with Stark? No one gets a Stark internship.” and the distracted chorus of careless nobodies, “Not at all.”

Peter went back to the room with a desk, only there wasn’t much paper left. He wasn’t sure what he would have written anyway. New York crawled off his arm and onto the blank sheet of paper that remained. There was a quiet still to the air.

“What ever happened to that phone call?”

...HUNTING YOU DOWN, New York replied weakly

“It’s been a day. Mr. Stark could’ve been here by now if he really wanted to be.”

...WATCH OUT, the city groaned

Peter shrugged. “It’s a Dark World out there, New York.”

PLEASE—Peter startled, his eyes shooting away from a darkened corner to the empty page. I CAN KEEP YOU SAFE, New York choked on tears wet and salted, PETER

Peter stared down owlishly at the city’s sobbing form. He thought  _if New York was a spider, it would have crawled away by now,_ but the city was still there, looking small and pathetic. “You’re crying.”

It’s spider-ish shape shivered under the calculation, looking utterly destroyed. YES. YES. YOU’LL BE UNSAVABLE IF YOU DON’T STOP NOW! I’LL BE—

But Peter was only partially aware of what he was meant to stop. He felt something on his shoulder—but looked down and New York was still a crumple on the paper. (The thing on his shoulder felt like a smile. He couldn’t make out what it was smiling over.)

NEW YORK, it screamed, IS THE WORLD! NEW YORK IS THE WORLD!

“Well...” he smiled down at it, and wasn’t sure why, “...is it?”

(New York is small and lit by artificial lights. That night in the alleyway, all the city lights started flickering out one by one.)

Suddenly, the door creaked open and Red’s tired face peaked in. “Hey, kid—” his gaze traveled from Peter’s bent form to the blank sheet—”What’s going on?”

New York writhed in the pages’ great blankness at the interruption. Peter frowned, glancing up at Red with an expression softly unreadable. “Nothing, really.” The Thing on his shoulder didn’t move, but Peter could feel the smile still.

(Until New York wasn’t lit at all.)

Here’s what happened next:

Tony hurried to Baltimore with an image of Peter in his mind that was both loved and incorrect. He flew the suit as fast as it would go. Peter had become an idea lost to inaction, coaxed along by Tony’s faith that the situation would turn itself around. The situation did no such thing. The reality of Peter’s character only cemented itself as more obscure than Stark figured anyone had any right to be.

Peter hurried back to New York in a car full of criminals nameless, planning a heist of proportions incongruous to a spider so small. Spider-Man had become a mere idea, lost to time and reality. The reality of being small. Peter had followed along, waiting for consequences to prove his world true—his understanding that saving people made a difference. That  _he_  made a difference. The consequences were entirely nonphysical, and effort was wasted. Peter was not obscure, he was waiting.

There was one moment, at exactly four in the morning the following day, in which Iron Man flew above a car packed full of criminals. Tony kept going. Peter looked away. New York called for help to deaf heroes and bigger spiders.

I’M TRYING TO SAVE YOU, it sobbed

(And all the world’s a web.)

“...was that Iron Man?” Blue gasped, leaning flush against the passenger window, eyes skyward.

Green snorted. “How convenient. You don’t think he’s rushing off to find his little, lost intern, do you?”

“Ha! I bet he—”

“Stop. Please.” Red grumbled, passing a slight glance at Peter before turning back to the road. After a moment, he continued, “Everyone know the plan? We only get one chance at this.”

LOOK AT THIS, New York moaned sadly over a chorus of “yes” and “of course” and Peter’s hummed and disinterested assent.

He frowned away from Red’s form to look at the spider on his hand. “What?”

LOOK AT THIS. IT’S ALL SO DREARY. WE CAN’T GET OUT. I CAN’T GET OUT.

“Out of what?”

New York pulled into itself, clutching tightly to Peter’s skin. EVERYONE’S STUCK IN THIS WEB. DON’T YOU SEE IT COMING? BIG SPIDER’S GONNA EAT US WHOLE.

“Oh,” Peter shrugged, feeling neutral.

Blue laughed from the passenger seat at something Green suggested. “I like the kid!” she clapped, smiling at Peter’s distracted gaze.

LITTLE SPIDER,

Peter stopped looking so aimless, giving the spider some casual thought. He shook his head mutely and kicked the floor. Contemplated the smallish spider riding along his body, no longer motivated enough to web across his frame and wrap him up.

“Of course you do,” Green smirked, “He gave us a metric fuck-ton of information and agreed to do the bulk of the work for us.”

I’M TIRED. New York sighed wetly.

Red smiled at the road. “He’s a good kid.”

(Peter didn’t deign to comment. His stomach was filled with the lead he had come to ignore.)

(And the eighth leg of daunting, brilliant, beautiful New York—was hate. Hate was a small curiosity Peter didn’t want to bother with anymore. Hate was a consequence.)

Until Peter stood at the entrance to Stark Tower. Red and Blue and Green stationed where they were needed while Peter was stood frozen with passcodes and privileges in mind. He was inspired—not to hurt Stark but to test once and for all the nature of consequence. He could kill and let others kill. Could trespass and lie. Could be a vigilante. At the end of things, Peter was free. To return to a city with a fresh perspective that all the streetlights were gone dark was somewhat enlightening.

(Back then, on that fateful day, a girl had seen Peter kill that man. She had been there, and she had cried for him. Still, the tv never broadcast any story on Spider-Man's descent. Peter wondered why she hadn't said anything. Wondered what the point was after all.

WHERE’S THE GIRL—New York had said that. Had said it like it had mattered. But here’s the truth: nothing mattered at all. Peter was a child was a hero was a killer. People looked at him like he was a novel toy and like he was an idea in passing. Peter looked at people like they were New York—small and inconsequential and dark.)

Peter killed a man and no one blinked. Aunt May rolled her eyes. Mr. Stark built a new phone. New York shuddered under a world that was darker outside it's city lights now gone. It’s a question of youth, obligation, and consequence as much as it is a question of love, hate, and meaning.

(It’s a dark world out there, Peter Parker—)

There is a sudden, ephemeral beauty to everything. Peter stood there watching it die. He thought New York must have liked it all, too, because it didn't say a word. Then,

...DO YOU FEEL BETTER?

Peter sucked in a breath, body frozen—or maybe not, and said, "No." Then, "I feel worse."

New York skittered nervously up his arm, TOO LATE FOR THAT NOW

Neither was reassured by the silence that followed.

Peter let the silence speak his reply until he didn’t anymore. Then he said this, “I should go in.”

...IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU DO. New York started crying. I WAS WRONG.

Sucking in a breath, Peter grabbed the door handle.

IT WAS ALWAYS JUST THIS New York wailed its morbid grief in a broken, ugly sob THERE REALLY ISN’T ANYTHING TO FEAR, IS THERE?

“Please,” Peter whispered, knuckles bleaching white, “please stop.”

I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE! WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME? New York filled the world with despairing howls for hours, cracking all the streetlights dead. Then it only whimpered. IS THIS REALLY ALL THERE IS?

(New York crumbled under its own weight. A Big Spider watched from where it was dozing lazily on its cosmic web—from where it was smiling on Peter’s shoulder. The Thing said its name was The Dark World, and it told Peter what the web was  _really_  like.)

Peter opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burst of inspiration, i guess. updates are still not regular or even decidedly going to happen
> 
> reminder: ive been hinting at some stuff for a while but im not good at writing so this all probably seems terribly out of place  
> h a h a   
> ok bye


	11. Dark World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WITH GREAT POWER

_When Peter was twelve, he broke a vase. Aunt May’s face had twisted up in a strange expression that Peter calls panic. She made sure he hadn’t been cut, then cleaned up the mess. She had said it was her grandmother’s vase, and it that it had been very special._  

_Now it was just painted_ _black_ _shards in the trash._  

_May said it was nothing to worry about. Things like that were of little consequence._  

_“So long as you aren’t hurt,” she smiled, “everything is okay.”_  

_Peter kills a man and no one finds out. He burns the body and talks to spiders._  

_Aunt May doesn’t look for him. New York was too small for real consequence, and Peter is even smaller._  

 

(New York was the world until it wasn’t.) 

A FOOLISH THOUGHT, LITTLE SPIDER. THE WORLD ISN’T ANYTHING BUT WHAT IT IS. 

Peter’s spine stiffened, feeling overheard and over-known. “The world is..?” 

THE WORLD IS JUST THE WORLD, AND THIS IS HOW IT IS. EVERYTHING IS CHAOS AND DISORDER, The Dark World intoned, THAT’S WHERE THE REASON COMES FROM. 

Incapable of countering the truth as he was, Peter simply nodded. He was nodding at an intern. 

“Oh,” the intern said, looking up from a pile of papers when she, presumably, noticed Peter moving toward her and nodding. “Can I help you?” 

“Yes, thank you,” his voice calm and cold, “I’ve been gone for a while. I just wanted to be sure my name was still in the system.” 

“Oh.” 

IT IS, 

“Yes,” Peter smiled something pleasant and flat, “It’ll be there.” 

She frowned, but clicked her red nails over the keyboard anyway. A couple seconds passed. “Your name?” 

“Peter Parker.” 

Smiling emptily at the girl while she typed, Peter wondered that he wasn’t nervous at all. The air was cool on his neck and his hands were clean enough. There was no spider on his shoulder, just a dark comfort in his lungs. 

“Oh!” She shot Peter was quick, wide-eyed look before apologizing weakly. “Y-yeah, you’re still in here. Um... you have access to Alpha level floors?” 

Peter wasn’t worried about it. “Yes. Thank you.” 

“Would you like me to...” she looked a bit lost, “...to alert Mr. Stark that you’re here?” 

Seeing the screen’s reflection in her eyes—seeing his status here reflected in wet optics not his own—Peter huffed out something of a sigh. She must have assumed his being so high-level meant Stark knew him. She wasn’t really wrong, on some level. Then again... 

“...Whatever works.” Peter hummed instead, “Though I shouldn’t think he’d want to be bothered with this.” With me. 

DOESN’T MATTER IF HE COMES NOW OR NOT, LITTLE PETER PARKER. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he reiterated to the intern, thinking quite proudly,  _secrecy is for those with a sense of consequence and self-importance._  

The Dark World chuckled heavily and dully, YOU’RE FINDING IMPORTANCE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES. 

“Anyway,” Peter told the intern, backing away towards the elevators, “I—uh, I’ve got something to do. On the upper floors. That’s the Right Place to be. Thanks.” 

She watched him oddly for a second, and Peter didn’t think she got the Capital of it all. Maybe that was the concern. 

Peter got on the elevator, FRIDAY was silent. He started moving up. 

(FRIDAY was silent, and everything must have been okay. The intern shrugs and gets back to work. By the time Peter reaches his floor, she has forgotten he was ever there.) 

 

FRIDAY has not. They are a voice cold and self-pitying, somehow, in Tony’s ear. 

“He’s what?!” 

“Back in New York, sir,” the AI reports haltingly. 

“Back in New Y—” Tony starts and stops in the same breath, a metal hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose before he realizes he’s got the suit on. “How? Why?” 

He's mostly to Baltimore when FRIDAY let’s him know. Things have spiraled so terribly. Stark still doesn’t even know why Peter’s left, and now he’s come back. He’d checked the alleyway and found nothing. He’d checked with May and found nothing. Watched the news and found nothing. 

He can’t even file Peter as a missing person, because Peter is Spider-Man. There is always more at stake than it seems. 

(Tony thinks he hears it for a second in the brush of the wind on his suit—THERE ARE NO STAKES, JUST OBLIGATIONS AND MELODRAMA.) 

And the suit is turned around and going faster than before. It's going faster and running on panic, confusion. 

“Mr. Parker has just entered the Developmental Tech lab.” the AI reports, “He seems to be going through a number of classified files. Would you like me to lock him out?” 

(Tony doesn’t care about that. He loves Peter Parker like a son, and that’s enough. He doesn’t need any more meaning than that.) 

“Yeah,” is what he says instead, “do that. And call May.” 

 

_It’s like stubbing your toe and expecting you’ll need a cast. Peter killed a man and expected someone to care. While Aunt May was worrying over porcelain shards sticking out of the carpet like they were ebony peaks, Peter was becoming the_ _v_ _ase._  

_He gets knocked over and broke in an alleyway filled with spiders._  

_(_ _No_ _one_ _threw him away. Peter toed the line of respect.)_  

_The spiders offer advice._  

 

Peter is loading a file about clean energy onto a flash drive when the lights shut off, the doors lock, and the computer freezes up. He hears FRIDAY click to life above him. 

“Mr. Parker,” it says, “Boss has asked me to keep you here until he arrives.” 

“Uh. Okay.” 

(It doesn’t mean a thing.) 

Peter keeps typing. It only takes ten minutes to hack his way back into the system. He’s loading more files onto the drive, and when he gets what Red asked for entirely, he steals even more. Peter is begging for confrontation. 

Peter takes his time. FRIDAY’s silent commentary seems vexed. 

(His spidery blood is apple red. New York is a broken street lamp.) 

 

_He’s coming back. He came back. For safety and love. Finally. A place where Tony could coddle him and protect him from whatever the hell happened all that time ago in an alleyway empty and a city distant and cold._  

_(He’s coming back. He came back. For the sanity of the world itself. A place where people meant just as little as they did everywhere else, protected from hurt by whatever the_ _hell Peter did to deserve so little consequence. Made sense by a Dark World—the only logical conclusion to all this useless chaos.)_  

_He came back. It’s too late._  

_Peter stubs his toe and his whole foot breaks. It doesn’t actually hurt._ _New York spins him a cast of silken webs and anxious optimism._  

_When he’s twelve, he_ _breaks his Aunt May’s favorite vase, and she’s kind of upset. Once she’s cleaned the mess up, she tells him that he’s more important than the vase._  

_Peter is never sure why this makes his chest feel so very tight._  

 

(He hears it in the unlock of the door.) 

YOU’LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR 

 

Mr. Stark is at the doorway with eyes sad and confused. Peter’s not sure how long he had to wait, but it’s maybe just worth it to see his mentor whole. He has so much on the drive, it’s unnecessary. But Mr. Stark— _Tony_ is here. Peter wants him to say something cruel. 

(Stark’s thinking he doesn’t understand what’s happening, but FRIDAY is private in his ears saying their being robbed, saying Peter’s stolen  _everything_. 

Tony thinks he hears it for a second—just a second—and it’s a voice he can’t place. It’s a voice that’s not talking to him at all. He’s looking at Peter’s stiff frame and half-lidded, haunted eyes. It looks like the kid was crying.) 

YOU’LL NEVER FIND WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR, the voice hums like a thousand flies over a corpse, BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT LOOKING FOR ANYTHING AT ALL. 

Peter slips the drive into his pocket to watch his mentor and look innocent, or something. The information is heavy in his jacket, but it doesn’t mean anything at all. He’d be just the same if he never took it, and that’s damning enough. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t get it. He’s living for life, standing before Peter for love. Peter’s living for meaning, stealing drives for the sake of doing something with his (dirty, dirty) hands. 

No one quite gets it. 

“Kid.” 

“Mr. Stark.” 

Tony’s held his hands up, trying to look perhaps nonthreatening. He must see something in Peter’s eyes to put him so on edge. (It’s a sort of mania.) 

“Peter,” he corrects, “What are you doing?” 

“...” 

“I— _We_ were looking for you all over the place. What in the hell happened?” 

His eyes follow Peter’s nervous shuffling to the pocket of damning things. Peter stops fidgeting. “What’s going on, Pete? If you’d just let me know—” 

“You have to do,” Peter hummed, “what you have to do. To survive, Mr. Stark.” 

“That’s not how the world works, kid. You—you have family to lean on.” (You have me.) 

But Peter was shaking his head. “No. No. That’s not—the world isn’t like that. It’s... the world is really simple, but it isn’t like that.” 

“Kid. Kid, please. What’s going on?” 

HE REALLY DOESN’T UNDERSTAND, IT’S— 

“—It’s a Dark World, Mr. Stark. And I just... I did something terrible. Only it wasn’t that terrible, after all. I think that’s a lot worse.  I want more than this, Mr. Stark. I want some consequence.” 

(Whatever happened to New York, anyway?) 

“Consequence? You disappeared?! Is that not consequence enough?” 

Peter frowned and looked away. Mr. Stark doesn’t hate him, he’s just confused. This is infinitely worse. He wants to be told off and hurt. The air stills for a moment, halting at its own verbal poison. When Tony speaks next, his voice is pitched oddly to the tune of resignation. 

“You have me. I—you have me to lean on. Please.” (He thinks Peter isn’t capable of evil things. He thinks it's just the stress. Peter shouldn’t have started so young—it's the stress of things.) 

Peter looked away, not from shame this time but from something else unnamable. “I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone. Isn’t that the point?” 

EVERYONE FOR THEMSELVES The Dark World confirmed, WHAT A FOOL 

“No, no, Peter, please—” Tony stuttered, looking lost, “I found you. Come home. Look—I called May on the way here. She’s on her way, too. She just wants you to come home.” He must see the gleam of (pure hatred) sadness in Peter’s eyes, because he adds, “No questions asked.” 

(Normalcy—he just wants to go back to normal—) 

WHAT A SELFISH MAN 

“Don’t be selfish,” Peter said, His eyes thinned meanly. “Don’t insult me.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Me neither.” 

Stark fidgets a step closer, but Peter moves away. “You know I’m here for you, right?” 

HE WANTS SOMETHING FROM YOU The Dark World droned 

“I know.” 

Tony seemed to perk up. “You do? Good. Then... let’s go. Let’s go home.” (Off his game, or something. There was this  _look_  in Peter’s eyes. He couldn’t place it.) 

“No.” There was so much emptiness in the world, “No, I can’t do that.” He didn’t care. He didn’t. 

...HE’S AWFULLY STUPID. IS THIS LOVE OR MANIPULATION? 

“You’re manipulating me.” Peter intoned, frown inky and black, “What do want from me? I’ll just do it now... Is it an Avenger mission, or whatever? Because I don’t do those anymore.” 

Tony’s eyes were saucers. “What? What are you talking about? I just want things to go back to how they used to be, Peter.” (He was trying to be open, honest, gentle. It wasn’t something his character was usually met with, but Peter’s words hurt more than he’d like to admit.) 

Peter shook his head mutely. “No, no. What do you want from me? You don’t have to pretend, Mr. Stark. I don’t care about that.” 

“I’m not pretend—” 

“But what do you  _want_ from me?” 

Tony snapped. “Damnit, Peter! I just want you to come home! For fuck’s sake, you left your aunt in tears and you left me to pick up the pieces! Is that what you want to hear? I just miss you! I want you to come home because you’re a good kid and I want you to be safe and happy! Why does there have to be such a give and take to things? Can’t there just be love?” 

( _“So long as you aren’t hurt_ _,_ _everything is okay.”_ _Aunt May’s voice is liquid evil.)_  

BECAUSE SHE WAS LYING, the Dark World says with an air of vague delight. 

“I wish everyone would stop being so selfish,” Peter tells the big spider, and means it. 

“I’m not—” Mr. Stark’s expression falls flat when his voice falters. “I’m here for  _you_ , kid. Not me.” 

This time Peter recognizes the lie the second his chest grows heavy. Dark World watches with a muted amusement, and Tony sweeps away the shards of a vase he never knew. Peter’s frown deepened, his heart was still (ached, ached, ached, he wanted to cry). The Dark World was abuzz with quiet, uncaring energy. There is no CONSEQUENCE to anything at all. Why would— 

“Peter.” 

He looks away. The room is empty. (Time is irrelevant.) “What, Mr. Stark?” He doesn’t get it. Why is Tony here? He doesn’t stand to gain anything from seeing Peter again. No one does anymore. Why would he still— 

“Why... won’t you come home?” He sounds just as unsure as Peter feels. He doesn’t get it either. 

...WHAT ABOUT THE WORLD? 

“The world is so terrible.” Peter explains. “I’m so terrible. It doesn’t matter, Mr. Stark. Sometimes things are just chaotic and bad.” He finds it in himself to smile softly, sadly, at Tony. “That’s where the reason comes from. That’s where I come from.” 

He isn’t sure if Tony gets it. Doesn’t think he does. That’s okay. Peter doesn’t really get it, either. It doesn’t have to mean anything to be true. 

(Tony  _does_  get it, if only slightly. He thinks the world is a dark place, too. He thinks he found a light in it with Peter, but Peter doesn’t see light in anything anymore. Something about that puts Tony in the darkness too. For a second, Tony thinks he sees a Big Spider orchestrating the world, sucking his blackened blood dry. But he doesn’t actually see anything but Peter’s sorry, tortured frame, shaking where it carries the weight of imagined worlds and knowledge. 

A quiet part of Tony feels nothing but rage. He ignores the feeling. It seems spidery and strange.) 

Peter carries on his shoulders the weight of terribly imagined things. But its better, he thinks, than carrying to monstrous, eternal, and dreadful weight of love. A love that defies consequence and persists always, always,  _always._ Even when you do horrible things and run away from home. Even then. Aunt May still comes to get him. Mr. Starks still asks him to stay. 

Uncle Ben dies in front of him and Aunt May cries. Peter wasn’t hurt—everything is  _fine._  He could have saved Ben if he were good, but May says she loves him even when she learns this. Peter stabs a man to death in an alleyway and panics. He tries to brush the shards underneath a rug but just cuts his feet up. There’s evidence left over, it’s just that no one cares. 

Why would Mr. Stark still love something as horrible as Peter? There’s no sense to it at all. 

(Peter’s got to feeling small. This is where the power comes from.) 

 

_“_ Boss?” FRIDAY chimes loud and hollow from above. 

“FRI.” Tony says it like a permission, but his voiced is pitched painfully up. 

“Ms. Parker has arrived. Would you like me to let her up?” 

“Ye—” 

“No!” 

He already knows what May has to say, and he doesn’t want to hear it again. (Red payphone cords and tiny cars.) He can’t bear to see her face so thankful. There’s a knife sharp and red in Peter’s eye when he hears the elevator doors  _bing_ open at the end of the hall outside the room. He knows it’s May from the hurt of her shoes on the tile. 

He knows this is all there ever was. It’s love and forgiveness that Peter doesn’t deserve. 

WITH GREAT POWER 

“Sorry,” Peter says. 

Tony takes a step forward, then another. He doesn’t stop moving forward—he must see the PANIC is Peter’s eyes looking like knives. 

The door starts to open and Peter thinks, WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT POWER, AND THAT’S IT. 

There’s an obligation to everything in the dark, dark world, and Peter’s had enough of forgiveness. He can see Aunt May’s wrinkled fingers wrapped around the door and Tony’s own reaching out to him. Peter gives up on seeming strange. 

He pushes Tony back with all his might. Pushes him back with dirty hands and apple shaped intentions. 

 

May walks in looking hesitant and unsure, but hopeful. But the room is devoid entirely of life. There’s a Peter shaped hole in the room and a forceful kick to the wall that knocked it down into the hallway. 

Tony Stark is sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. The room is devoid entirely of life. His blood is sweet and apple red just like New York. 

(This web isn’t one anyone can GET OUT of.) 

 

Officers arrive thirty minutes later and start taping the place off. 

"Did anyone suspicious come in earlier?” 

The intern frowns and looks away from her work where it lies at reception. “I don’t know.” She says. After a second, she asks, “Will I lose my internship since Stark’s dead? I’d hate to intern at Oscorp—I hear the programs a joke over there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: all of the great comments I got were???? so good ahhhh but I get kind of anxious about replying so i dont and that just makes it worse so? /? haha anyway sorry
> 
> I am, in fact, aware no one wanted the fic to end like this but i am... not... a good.... writer lol  
> yall wanted a juicy confrontation but jokes on all of us that didn't fit the tone  
> if it seems kind of rushed that bc i wanted to finish it  
> me, finishing this in disgrace  
> enjoy or don't  
> and, yes, i know this is both (1) impossible to read/understand and (2) very bad
> 
> feel free to let me know how much you hated it in the comments bc tbh??/ same

**Author's Note:**

> //jumps into the sun


End file.
